When the Flame Goes Out
by UnclaimedDemigod
Summary: Everything is over. Or is it? Struggling with depression, fear, nightmares, and memories, Katniss is far from regaining herself. Who she was is gone, who is she now? Not the girl on fire, the spark seems to have gone out. Will Katniss' constant fears and nightmares tear Peeta, her only anchor to sanity, and her apart?
1. Chap 1 Trying to Forget

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Chapter 1: Trying to Forget

One can't win the Games, and not remember. What _is_ winning the Games? You don't ever really win. You may be the last one alive, but the only one not able to live on. The faces of your fellow tributes are always in the shadows and behind your eyelids, staring. Daring you to forget. If you're lucky, you can distract yourself with a hobby. This seems to work for Peeta, as the only time he seems to remember is when he isn't doing anything, or when he is sleeping. Others just resort to other less demanding means of peace. Strong drinks, drugs such as morphline, or suicide. Me? I try not to do anything. I've tried hobbies, but none work. None distract me enough so that I don't feel _them_ , my fellow tributes, behind me, watching my every move. I've tried the drink. But Peeta hates it when I do; he says I act just like Haymitch when I do. I know what those addicted to morphline are like, how they end up. They forget everything; don't care about anything except that drug. Those victors didn't just forget it, the Games, they forgot everything. No, morphline or any drug like it isn't an option. So when my memories become too strong, I'll either stand stock still while clenching my fists and closing my eyes tight, or have Peeta hold me until it is over. I prefer the latter, so I'm not alone.

It is the same with war. You win. You defeat the enemy. And then what? Forget? Turn aside to drink and drugs just so you can have a few hours alone. Without the faces of those whose lives you ended, whose futures you destroyed staring back at you. At least with the drink and drugs you can sleep without dreams.

Suicide? Yes, I've considered it. The desire to be done with it all, to be free of all the angry souls tormenting me in the dark, in my sleep, has often been strong. One time I almost did it. Almost was brave enough to end it all.

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As I stare into the bathroom mirror into my own eyes, I don't see her. I don't see Katniss Everdeen. The girl on fire. The victor. The star-crossed lover. The face of the rebellion. The hero. No. All I see is a stupid, scared girl holding a kitchen knife in one shaking hand to her opposite wrist. Tears are pouring down her face, my face. I'm too scared to do it. I, who went into the Hunger Games twice, who ran a rebellion, who killed so many people, am too frightened to end it all for myself. I close my eyes tight and the yet unshed tears in my eyes spill over. I press the knife closer into my wrist, ready to cut it. Yes, soon I'll be with Prim, and Finnick. Those who I am also the cause of their deaths won't be there because I never cared for them personally. _This is the right thing. Peeta will be alright. I won't be a bother to anyone-_

 _anymore. I can do this._ I don't think I would have been able to do it even if Peeta hadn't come in at that moment, hadn't grabbed the knife by its blade right out of my hand. As I stand there with my arms wrapped around myself, I see that he is bleeding, a large slit in his right hand where he grabbed the knife. It is on the floor where he must have dropped it, his blood covering its blade, just by my feet. I could grab it right now. But before I can, Peeta has wrapped his arms around me, and I feel that he is shaking. I too, can't stop shivering. "Oh Peeta!" I sob, and pull him closer. I think he is crying too, but I can't look because he is holding me too close. "Oh Peeta!" I say again. "I am sorry! I am so sorry!"

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Even a month after my attempted suicide, I can't forget all of the details. Peeta's blood. The knife. The moment where Peeta pulled the knife away. It is all clear and vivid. It all replays in my mind as if it happening again. Just as my memories of the Games and of the Rebellion do. Replay again and again until that is all I see.

Peeta hasn't spoken of it, nor have I wanted to. He knows what I am going through, what every tribute including he himself has gone through. Is continually going through. The memories. The survivors-guilt. Everything.

We'll have to talk sometime soon. Before one of us kills ourselves, literally. Before one of us finds ourself alone, with blood on the floor and a suicide note in our hands. No. I shake my head to try to fling the dark thoughts away.

"You ok?" says Peeta. I had thought he was asleep. But it seems that if I so much as take an extra breath he wakes up and is ready to comfort and help. "Yeah." I reply, and curl up again next to him. He places and arm over me. Soon he is dozing again. I decide to try to sleep too. I close my eyes, and wait for the dreams to attack, sure that if they do, Peeta will be merciful and wake me from them.

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Hope you liked my first installment of "After the Flame Goes Out." Chap 2 coming as soon as it can!


	2. Chap 2 The Stained Glass Window

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

(suggested instrumental reading songs (if you're like me): 'Primavera' by Chen Wu, 'We're A Team' by James Newton Howard (from the movie Catching Fire)

Chapter 2: The Stained Glass Window

I watch the sun pour in through the window and shine on the ceiling, making pretty green, blue, red, yellow and orange patterns. Suddenly they fade; a cloud must be covering the sun. I slowly sit up from my comfortable pile of flat, feather pillows. They are dusty from sitting up in the attic for so long, but still rather comfortable despite being filled with crushed and smelly feathers inside. I shakily stand, and swing my right leg back and forth to get the circulation back. How long have I lain here anyway? I look out the window through the few clear shards of glass in between the stained pieces. The sun is high in the sky, and a few workers from the medical centers are sitting in the small grass patches eating lunch, while a few patients take strolls in the meadow. I think how nice it would be to stretch my legs, to go barefoot in the tall grass. Perhaps Peeta would let me hunt, although we don't need to anymore. No one is ever hungry, never starving.

My eyes focus back onto the meadow, and an unexpected shudder goes through me. I could go walking in the meadow, but then I would be walking on-on _them_. The people whose lives were cut short because of me blowing up the Arena in the Games. Oh, the _Games_! No, too many reminders outside, fewer within. Perhaps some other time. I don't ever really leave the house anymore. This last house, out of all the victor houses that stood in a semi-circle not too long ago, is the last to stand. The rebels who decided to turn District 12, what used to be District 12, into a medical district, tore the houses all down. They also, to my relief, cleared the bomb destruction away. Now I don't look out my window to see piles of roasted corpses and collapsed buildings, but the primroses Peeta planted next to our house, a last tribute to my little sister Prim, and beyond those, the newly built medical centers. I still wish they weren't so close. The workers and their families, they might see me, see my wild eyes and think the stories of my being crazy to be true. The stories of how Katniss Everdeen, two-time survivor of the Hunger Games, symbol of the Rebellion, finally cracked.

Peeta says people want to see me, not everyone thinks I am crazy. Those that don't think I am deranged are probably wrong, I don't even know myself whether I am unbalanced or not, unstable. Even my mother, the one who brought me into the world, thinks my mind is lost. Why else would I kill the 'true hero of the Rebellion'? Coin, the late president of District 13, the liar, the murderer. _Oh Prim_. That shot I took at Coin, that fatal shot wasn't enough. Didn't pay for Prim's cut-short life. Didn't pay for all of those children's lives, those other medics. I wipe the tears from my eyes with my sleeve. I am reluctant to leave the pretty stained glass window, the pile of pillows, another of my safe havens. A place where I can watch the world unnoticed. But Peeta will be wondering where I am. He has most likely searched all of my usual havens, and, finding them empty, gone to search through the rarely used places. He doesn't know about this haven yet, but he'll search until he finds me. I might be trying to hang myself for all he

knows. I shouldn't be alone for long. My mind drifts back to 3 months ago. Back to my first-no, my _only_ suicide attempt. There was a knife, and-Peeta; he saved me, saved me from myself. Peeta's voice calling my name pulls me back to the present. I hear him thump-thump up the steps. I step toward the attic trapdoor, crouch down and open it. "I'm up here." I call down to him.

"Are you hungry?" That's it. He doesn't question my being up here alone, doesn't pry. He knows if I want to talk about it I will. He helps me down the ladder onto the landing at the top of the winding stairs. His arms stay around me, holding me close from behind. When he holds me, I always feel like everything is ok, I can cry. But I know if I start sobbing, Peeta will be worried. I hold back the tears, take a deep breath, and turn around to hug him back. "What is for lunch?"

"Whatever you'd like." He replies. He plants a light kiss on my forehead, releases me, and takes my hand. "I made some of those cheese rolls that you like just this morning." He says as we make our way around and down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, he gently releases my hand and makes his way to the kitchen. Wonderful smells reach my nostrils when he opens the kitchen door. Perhaps I could eat something.

We hold hands as we eat the cheese rolls with ham and off-the-cob corn. I eat like a hog as usual after I have slept or lain around instead of eating. Afterwards I help Peeta clean up. I wash the dishes while he dries them and puts them in their appropriate cupboard. Our two cups. Two plates. Two forks. The plastic container that had held the ham. Then the cor-"How about we take a walk?" Peeta suddenly says, interrupting the my wordless of the past 10 minutes.

"Oh, Peeta, you know-maybe, I don't know." I mumble in reply. "You can if you'd like." I realize that the answer was too quick, too putting off. "I'm sorry. But-you know why I can't go outside."

"No I don't." He replies, quickly drying the plastic container, not even looking at me. "But I do know why you don't _want_ to go outside." He stops drying and leans against the counter. "I mean-if they think you're-that you're crazy, then they're deranged to even consider so." I can tell he isn't angry at me. He never really is. Peeta may often be disappointed in me, but never angry. No, he is angry at any person or party who thinks that I've lost my mind. Before he can go on, I lean forward and kiss him gently on the lips. He stops talking.

"I'll go out with you. But only for a little while, and, let's keep behind the buildings. Away from anyone."

He isn't shocked as I thought he would be. He just smiles. "Great."

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Peeta does convince me to go outside more often after that walk. And I start to enjoy it. But the one thing he hasn't convinced me yet, is-is the idea of children. I am not yet sure that I want to try to bring a child into an imperfect world. A world that hosted the Games, a place where people kill people for power. A world where people starve. None of that is happening now to the best of my knowledge, but how can one be sure they won't happen again?

Peeta rolls over beside me. I freeze, hoping he isn't awake. It seems I wake him every night now, either from nightmares or me staying awake to avoid nightmares. Dark circles under his eyes are proof of that. But his steady, deep breathing continues. I let out a silent breath of relief, and close my eyes to the world of ghosts and Games.

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Hey Hunger Games fans! Sorry for the anticlimactic chapter, IT was just not in me tonight. But I promise to you loyal readers that the excitement will come soon! Thanks for reading! Have a good one!

(Also, if you have any ideas for future chapters that you yourself do not want to write about, comment and tell me about them. I may consider them, and you may quite possibly see them in future installments of 'When the Flame Goes Out!')


	3. Chapter 3-I've Got You

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine

(Suggested instrumental reading songs (if you're like me): "Beth's Theme" by Olafer Arnalds (from the "Broadchurch Season 2" soundtrack), and "Main Theme" by Olafer Arnalds (also from the "Broadchurch Season 2" soundtrack)

Chap 3. I've Got You.

As I rest from one of my lengthy walks in the woods, leaning my hand against a tree trunk, I have a realization moment. You may also have these moments. When you finally realize what you have been through, and what you have accomplished in life. I know it is an odd thing for an 18 year old to think. Some would say at 18 years, it is the beginning of changing experiences, the prime of life, the time of opportunity. But I have to say there are exceptions. What if-like me-and so many other children, were plucked out of their ordinary lives, tossed into an arena, and forced to kill each other. Your childhood is gone then, torn from your hands. And, if your short life isn't ended in the arena, it doesn't really continue anyways once you move to Victors' Village. You either commit suicide or sit all day in a daze, only to be removed from that daze for a few days each year to go and train two young children, both who most likely never held a weapon, never killed a flea, never walked past the gates of their district. Then you're forced to watch the two victors you trained be slaughtered. A terrible cycle, one I gasp at how Haymitch survived.

Haymitch had no wife, no family that I have ever known. Snow may have disposed of them to get Haymitch to do his will. So with no one to lean on all these years, he's turned to drink, and tried to forget everything. But so far I've more or less avoided that fate. You see, I have Peeta. We were married almost 7 months ago. It was just the two of us there. Before any of the medical buildings and workers crowded in. We preformed the old District 12 ceremonies. The toast, the kiss. We're both nearing 19 now. 19, and already gone through the Games twice, helped a lead a Rebellion, and gotten married.

I am pulled from my reverie by voices. I peer through the trees and notice a small group of nurses leading a few patients down a faint trail that the medical centers made for 'healing walks.' And with my luck, it eventually winds past the tree where I stand. It must be just after lunch for them to be taking their daily walks. I don't want them to see me. I flatten myself behind and against the tree I was leaning on, hoping it is wide enough to conceal me just until they pass. I would climb it, if it weren't practically bare of leaves, it being nearly autumn. I hold my breath as they pass. One of the nurses is laughing at a terrible joke a patient is making.

They are almost around a bend in the trees when they all suddenly stop. Stop talking, stop laughing. I have to breathe, so I quietly inhale and exhale through my nose. They must have seen or heard something. Maybe they see me! Or-or perhaps they heard a small animal, there still are a few around. I am about to make a run for my house when I hear Peeta's voice. "Oh, hello!"

The nurses and a few patients breathe out sighs of relief. "We were just walking when we heard you coming through the bushes. We were afraid it was a bear or wild dog!" The speaker sounds female and has a breathy voice. "Nope, just me. But there still are a few small animals around." Replies Peeta. "None of them can hurt you though." After a few more polite exchanges, the nurses move on. Peeta waits until he can't hear them anymore, and then speaks. "Katniss?" I slip out from behind the tree. "Is it time to eat?" I ask, stepping quietly towards him, still wary of the nearness of the nurses and patients. He looks me in the eyes, "No, more around bedtime."

"Oh." He takes my hand, and we walk towards our house. I keep violently turning my head around to look for anyone watching. But the few nurses, patients and doctors are all heading for their assigned sleeping places. It happens so fast, I don't have time to pull Peeta away. Two doctors are heading straight towards us from the front. They're looking at us and smiling, but I still am cautious. Peeta still keeps walking forward, and I realize he isn't going to pull away at the last second; he plans on talking to them! Perhaps he expects me to talk also! When they reach us, one stretches out his hand to shake Peeta's, the second does likewise. Up close, they look practically twins. Long white hospital coats, bright smiles, and light brown hair. I come back into my own mind after observing them, and realize Peeta has introduced me, and both doctors have hands extended to shake mine. I slowly put my hand forward, shake each of their warm hands, and quickly pull away. "It is very pleasant to finally meet you Miss Everdeen." One of them says. I wait for Peeta to correct him, but he doesn't, so I realize I have to talk. "Mellark." I mumble out.

"Hmmm?" One of the doctors' questions.

"Mellark." I say louder. "Mrs. Mellark. Peeta and I were married 7 months ago."

Their beaming smiles are so bright. "Congratulations!" one says. "May you be happy!" says the other. It takes me a moment to realize where these two are from, why they are familiar. They act and look like capital citizens. From before Panem was in a Rebellion. Their flawless skin, their too bright, perfect teeth sicken me. That _must_ be where these two are from. Finally citizens of the capital actually working, actually having something useful to do besides dying. I wish Peeta would finish talking with the doctors. He seems to be leading the conversation. It seems the capital doctors don't know what to say. Not awkward at all, nope. But Peeta carries the one sided conversation well. Finally they say their farewells. I let out a sigh of relief as we make our way to our house. I am perfectly happy as Peeta closes the front door. Now I am back in my own small world, away from stupid capital citizens and everyone else.

"You should learn how to talk to people." Peeta says, locking the door and turning towards me.

"Why?" I reply, taking off my old leather jacket and leaning down to unlace my boots. "I've got you to talk for me."

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After Peeta goes upstairs to get ready for bed, I turn the TV on, and am surprised to see my mother's face on the screen. She appears to be on a late night talk-show. I turn the volume up, and sit stiffly on the couch. If I had seen this clip years ago, I would have said that this wasn't my mother. She seems to have opened up completely. She seems confident, not shy at all. She is wearing a simple nurse's gown, and is seated with her legs crossed on a gaudy red velvet chair opposite to-to a man who seems very familiar. It takes me two full minutes to recognize the face and voice of Caesar Flickerman. His teeth aren't nearly as white, his hair is real, not a wig, and pale blonde in color, but it certainly is Caesar.

Then I realize the subject they are speaking of-is me. "So now, Mrs. Everdeen, what say you to your daughters recent, er, how should I say this-insanity?"

My mother-is it really my mother?-clears her throat, and speaks. "All I can say is that-it is to be expected. She has gone through so much. The Games twice over. Being the symbol of the Rebellion. And watching her sister die. It was just too much."

However Caesar replies I don't hear. My own mother admitted to my being unstable. Is Gale watching this now? Is he believing this? What about my fellow soldiers? Cressida? Anyone? Does anyone besides Peeta think me perfectly sane? In a moment I yell and hurl the remote through the air. The crack as it makes contact with the screen is satisfying, but in a moment I am sobbing with my head in my hands. '- _it is to be expected_.' ' _It was just too much_.'

I hear Peeta quickly make his way down the stairs. "Katniss?" I look up, and see him as the only person on earth who thinks me perfect. How could he? "Oh Peeta." I sob again, and he is there to hold me. It takes him a few minutes to sum it all up. "Even if everyone in the world, got it, even if everyone thought you were not thinking right, know that I don't. I never have and I never will. I love you Katniss. Ok? I love you." And I know for certain he is speaking the truth, and that I love him too. But the words don't come.

He is holding me so close now. We're practically rocking back and forth. All that has happened washes over me, and I take an extra breath. "No matter what happens." Peeta speaks again. "Know that I've got you. I've got you."

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Hey you guys and girls! How was it? Chapter 4 will come ASAP (As Soon As Possible). Thanks for reading! And thankyou Reagan (guest reader) for the kind comments, if in the future you'd like a direct reply to your reviews, you must make an account on before you comment.

And remember everyone, if you have any ideas for future chapters that you yourself do not want to write about, comment and tell me about them. I may consider them, and you may quite possibly see them in future installments of 'When the Flame Goes Out!'


	4. Chap 4 Growing Apart?

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine

Chap 4. Growing Apart?

Two days after watching the interview with my mother, and 5 more talk shows, I throw the stupid TV out the front door. It was hard to see through the crack I made on the screen anyway. I ignore the stares the various nurses give me, and slam the door back shut. Peeta is there behind me. "Why?" He asks. "Why do you have to get so angry sometimes?"

I stalk past him, "I don't know." And make my way to the stairs, but Peeta grabs my arm. I am shocked at how strong he is, he's never used his strength against me, to hold me back. I hide my shock and glare into his eyes. He holds my glare. "Why are you going up there? Back up where you most likely will stay for hours. Just wasting your life lying around feeling sorry for yourself." Peeta knows that isn't why I lie around; he also knows he is being unreasonable. "Maybe," I start, but I can't think of the words to make him give up his useless argument. He finally lets go. "Fine. Go. Waste your life lying around." I almost expect him to add an "I don't care" to the end of his sentence, but he doesn't. "I'm going to go live mine." He finishes, then turns away and walks down the hall, probably to his studio. "Fine." I answer. I stomp up the steps, slip into our bedroom, and slam the door. I fall face down on the bed.

I lie there for only a few minutes before my anger boils down, and all I find at the bottom of the pot of my mind is fear and exhaustion. _Oh Katniss, what did you just do?_ I think on why Peeta reacted so strongly. _Is he just tired? Not just from me waking him up from my nightmares, but from everything? Having to watch me almost every minute of the day for fear I'll slit my own throat? Is he tired from me lying around, not caring? Is-is he tired of loving me_? I start to sob at this last thought. Yes, that has to be it. He only thought he loved me. How did he keep up that fantasy for so long? How did I? I don't think how stupid I am being, how immature. I just am angry at myself.

Gradually the sun rays shift through the window, and then fade altogether. I get so cold, lying above the covers, that I wish Peeta would hurry up and come to bed. It is only 4 hours later, about 11:00, that I realize he isn't coming up. Why would he since he doesn't love me? I sigh and slip under the covers still in my clothes and shoes, and prepare to face the nightmares on my own.

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 _I think she is Rue, but I can't be certain. Her hair keeps shifting and lengthening from shoulder length curly, and brown, to Prim's lovely, long, braided blond. Her face is a mix of Rue and Prim. She smiles, and takes a step back. She beckons with one hand. I want to shout, "Don't go!" But I can't. I want to follow, but I am held in place. I turn my head around to try to remember where I am at, but there is a bright light in my eyes, blinding me whenever I look anyplace except at Rue, at Prim? Rue/Prim suddenly laughs, but it is a deep laugh. Cold, and vile. Then Rue/Prim speaks, and I want to scream, but I can't._

" _You always were a weakling Katniss. Always such a Lie. Did you really think you were brave? Could lead an army? Could defeat-me?" The voice of President Snow lingers in the air even after it stops. I hear crows cawing, no, not crows, people. People are-are screaming. Their cries come from behind me, but I can't turn. I feel hot, burning tears fall from my eyes and scorch my cheeks. I want to wipe the sizzling droplets away, but I can't move my arms. Snow/Rue/Prim laughs again, but this time the laugh is Peeta's, and it is twisted so in a way that I have never heard it before. An angry laugh. Purely evil._

 _Suddenly, a spear spouts from Snow's/Rue's/Prim's/Peeta's chest, and the laugh is cut off. They/it falls backward to the ground onto it's back. The open eyes are facing upwards. I don't think it can see me, but the Thing speaks. "Go ahead and cry." More tears spill from my eyes, searing paths down my face and neck. I want to cry out, but I can't! The Thing turns it's head, and stares straight into my eyes. "Katnisssssssssss." It says, in a slithering, snaky voice. "Know that I love you. I always will." Those words should be coming out of the real Peeta's mouth, not this muttation of Snow, Rue, Prim and Peeta! I realize I am screaming. It feels wonderful to scream. I feel arms lock around me, and a pulling sensation. The arms are strong and familiar. They pull me easily from whatever holds me here, up into the sky. The arms tighten, and suddenly they are shaking me. I fear this is another muttation, another trick. I claw at the hands that now clutch my shoulders "Stop!" I hear myself shout. My struggles grow sluggish, and I think that I am dying. "Goodbye Peeta." I hear myself say, and then I feel myself go limp._

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"Katniss? Katniss!" I hear Peeta's frantic voice. I slowly open my eyes. Peeta. I see Peeta's face close to mine; his hands are on my shoulders. When he sees my open eyes, he gasps and pulls me close. "Oh Peeta!" I manage to gasp out. "Are we growing apart? You do love me don't you?"

He pulls away and looks into my eyes. "What do you mean? I'll always love you." He pulls me close again. "I don't know why I was so angry. I must be tired. _Oh Katniss_! I heard you scream, I came up, and you weren't breathing! You wouldn't wake up! Are you alright?" I nod in reply, and put my arms around his neck.

"I'm fine."

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I wake up in the dark morning with a jolt. The first thing I pleasantly realize is that I wasn't woken by a nightmare, but by a very pleasant dream involving Peeta. I can tell by the faint light coming through the window that the sun is waking up. Too early to get out of bed. The blanket slips off of my bare shoulders as I turn, and I shiver. It is so cold in the room! I snuggle closer against Peeta. He is so warm! His arm tightens around me. He lazily opens his eyes and smiles. "Good morning." I whisper.

His arm slips down to my waist, and he lightly kisses me on the forehead. "I love you." He whispers back. "I love you too." I say back, and close my eyes. We quietly talk for a few minutes, all the while Peeta is brushing his hand up and down my bare arm and waist. He finally just pulls me close and holds me tightly against his chest. I agreed last night that we could try for a child. Peeta didn't exactly shout out for joy, he just smiled and said, "Are you sure?" I am still scared, but I'll have Peeta. He can next to me and help raise and protect the child from the evils of this world. I know we'll have to get up soon, have to continue on without lives. But for now, I am fine with being close to Peeta, almost where time stands still, and one can forget about the Games and the wicked of this world.

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Hey Fanfiction readers! Now don't think these chapters are going to sprout as fast in the future as they are now. I **do** have a life (no really, I _do_!). I hope you enjoyed this installment of 'When the Flame Goes Out.' Remember everyone, if you have any ideas for future chapters that you yourself do not want to write about, comment and tell me about them. I may consider them, and you may quite possibly see them in future installments of 'When the Flame Goes Out!'

(Reagan-Contact support fanfiction .com. to help with your prooblems (found at support/)


	5. Chapter 5 Growing Close

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Chap 5. Growing Close

Sick. I am sick. I need to reach the toilet before I hurl all over the sheets. I untangle myself from the blankets and make a dash for the bathroom. I am glad that Peeta is out of the house, for he won't hear me puking my guts out. I shakily kneel in front of the toilet, and stick my face halfway into the bowl. I swallow, and breathe deeply. My eyes burn with tears. When the ordeal is over with, I wipe my mouth on a tissue, and sink to the floor. I don't trust myself to leave the bathroom or else I may not make it back in time when the feeling reappears.

Peeta finds me there, curled up on the floor, eyes closed, and for a moment I know he thinks I have done something to harm myself. Taken an overdose of pills perhaps? He kneels beside me with an upset crease between his eyebrows.

"Katniss?" He whispers quietly.

I don't want to reply for fear of puking all over his knees, but I finally speak up after a few moments. "I didn't do anything. I just-just don't feel well. I'm just sick; I'll be fine in a couple of hours. Days."

He sighs in relief, and strokes my damp forehead. "Can I get you anything?"

I shake my head slowly, and without opening my eyes I say, "I just want to sleep."

Peeta can't persuade me to leave the bathroom so he carries in a couple of towels, pillows, and one blanket so that I don't have to lie on the cold, tiled bathroom floor. He leaves me alone, and goes down to cook himself breakfast.

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It takes me until noon to realize what is wrong, or should I say right, with me.

I am pregnant.

I lay there on the floor, curled up in a blanket, head resting on a towel. I take a few minutes to let it sink in. We've tried many times now, and finally here is the desired result. This _is_ what Peeta wants. And if Peeta wants it, well, then don't I want it too?

I shakily stand up, my head woozy. I make my way to the dresser and change my pajama top for a long-sleeved, baggy shirt of Peeta's. My pajama pants I leave on, they are loosely fitted and don't squeeze my waist region at all.

Peeta will have prepared lunch by now, and I feel that I could eat something. I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. A small pot of turkey, carrot and celery soup cooks on the stove. Peeta is slicing fresh wheat bread, buttering and folding each piece, then setting it on a small plate. Clearly he made enough for two. He knew I would want something sometime. Peeta, always caring, always looking ahead.

Peeta smiles at me, a warm smile that makes me forget the wooziness inside. "I thought you might be down soon." He says as he finishes up with the bread and sets the plate on the table. He pulls a chair out from under the table and gently pushes me down into it. "Soups almost done."

It is a quiet meal, what with Peeta's amazing table manners and my unusually well ones. I don't slurp the soup as I usually so, but tear small bites of the bread off of the pieces, dip them in my soup, and slowly chew. Peeta glances up at me every so often, concern and love so clearly displayed in his blue eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes, framed so perfectly with their blonde lashes. I find myself daydreaming about what the child will look like. Will he or she have his or hers father's lovely blue eyes? Or mother's steely gray ones? I stop short when I think of me being a mother. I am 18. A perfectly alright age. But I am-I am- _me_. Will I have what it takes to be a mother?

Peeta interrupts my musing to ask me if he should go out and find some medication for me. I shake my head quickly and go back to eating. I see him nod, but he just slowly stirs the soup around in his bowl. He wants to say something, I know, but he doesn't. So I realize I must.

"I think….I think I might be-no, no I am…..I'm pregnant." I really am not 100% sure, but I am glad I spoke the words, because light goes into Peeta's eyes and he begins to eat again. He doesn't say a word, but I know he is happy, and believes I am happy. I am, mostly. I am afraid, but not unhappy in this case. We finish our food, and Peeta tells me to go and rest while he cleans up from lunch.

"Actually I think I'll go for a walk." Peeta turns around in surprise. As if pregnant girls shouldn't go anywhere lest they faint and then be lost. I chuckle and say, "Don't worry; I'll stick to the edge of the woods. And…I'll be back soon."

"OK." He answers. "I love you, Katniss."

"I love you too." I leave him slowly pouring the leftover soup into a plastic container, and smiling to himself. Perfectly happy.

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The sliding door to the storage unit is open. They, the medical workers, must be unloading the new supplies. A few of them lift a large white, plastic crate off of a truck and go inside. I decide to go through here because if I enter through the main door, everyone will see me. Everyone will watch me. They'll whisper, and I'll remember things I don't want to.

The medical employees exit the sliding door and head back toward the waiting truck half full of supplies. They start to talk instead of lifting another crate. This is my chance.

None of the employees are facing my direction. I make small, quiet movements toward the door, and then I am inside. The lights are all on in the storage unit, and I have no trouble, after scanning a couple crates, finding the stack of crates with "Maternity and Child" stamped all over them. I pop the lid off of a lonely crate, and wince at the noise. I don't hear the workers come running, so I continue in my search. I sift through the white packages of….I don't know, stuff. I finally spy small, cylinder like white packages with "Pregnancy Test" printed in blue on each. I grab a couple.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the wad of Panem paper money I grabbed from my dresser. I place the money where the supplies I stole…. _bought_ , were. I pop the lid back on the crate, and am able to quietly make my way out to the woods. I didn't lie to Peeta; I _am_ taking a walk on the edge of the woods, even if I didn't tell him the whole. I suppose Peeta would have offered to buy them if I had asked, but the cashier would see what he bought. I still feel foolish. I use all seven of the Pregnancy Tests before I believe the words I spoke to Peeta at lunch. I- _am_ -pregnant.

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I take a while to turn back around and go home. 20 minutes. I need to think. 30 minutes. This _is_ what I want. 1 hour. Isn't it? Perhaps I could tell Peeta I lost it. Perhaps I could-no. I stop short at the horrific thought of me murdering another child. Yes, it would be murder to-to-get rid of it. Even if I had a doctor do it. This baby isn't just mine as well; Peeta is the baby's father. He would never choose to let it die.

I take a deep breath, and turn toward home, making sure not to be seen by anyone.

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At home, I stay quiet all day. Peeta doesn't talk about the baby, but he still smiles at what seem random times. He is thinking about it, it is clear.

"Peeta," I say. He was cleaning up in his studio, and I sat on the counter along with paintbrushes and small tubes of paint. He turns toward me, wiping his hands free of cleaning solution. "Yeah?"

I wait until he is finished so he can come close to me, hold me. When his arms finally surround me, I speak again. "Peeta, I…..I was thinking about…." I take a deep breath, and tears come to my eyes, burning them. "Oh, Peeta. I was thinking about-about kill-no, getting rid of the baby."

Peeta's arms stiffen. He pulls slightly away and looks into my eyes. "Katniss. Oh, Katniss, no. No, no!" His voice raises, and I want to shrink back, but his arms tighten around me once again. "Katniss, did you? Did you do it? Katniss!"

I quickly shake my head. I want to say to him that it would have been for the baby's sake, not mine. That I wouldn't have been a fit mother for the child. It is partly true. But the words I speak next also are.

"I was selfish Peeta. _Am_ selfish. I tend to think about me first. I was scared…for me…..almost never for the baby."

At this, Peeta softens his hold on me, and pulls away. I am cold where his warm arms touched me.

"I'm glad you stopped and thought before…before you did anything."

I nod in reply, and start to slip off of the counter, intending to go upstairs and lie down. Peeta catches my hand as I leave the studio, but I don't look back into his face.

"Katniss, you know I love you. And that if you had done that terrible thing, though I would be angry, and sad, and-and…." Peeta stops for a moment. I don't want to know what he would do if I had. Beat me? No, no. Divorce me? The drifts in my thoughts until Peeta's voice vaporizes it, "Even if, I would still love you. Even though you thought of such a thing, I do love you."

He kisses me on the lips, then the forehead.

"Oh, Peeta." I sob. "Oh, why do you love me? Why me? I don't deserve you!" Peeta holds me against him, and I feel safe from dark thoughts and futures, from dark pasts and-and-myself. Yes. Peeta holds me together. If Peeta were ever to die….I would have to die also.

Peeta releases me, and again lightly kisses me on the lips. "What are you going to name the baby?"

"It is your baby too, so you have to help. We don't even know what the baby is, boy or girl."

Peeta thinks a moment, and decides. "Girl."

"Well, I think it's a boy."

Peeta chuckles as we make our way out of the studio. "We'll know in 9 months or so." He holds my hand tightly to let me know that he'll be there, always.

I start to shiver at the thought of what lay at the end of 9 months, but I stop, and smile. I decide to be happy. This baby will grow us even closer together, and pull me away from pitying myself. The baby will make me love Peeta more and more. I begin to think of names for the child. Boy names of course, for of course it will be a boy.

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Sorry for the long break, loyal readers! Remember, feel free to suggest future happenings in the lives of Peeta and Katniss (and future little Mellark(s)!), and to offer up constructing and helpful criticism about my work, to help me improve.

Thank you for reading! May the stories be always in your heart, and the odds forever in your favor!


	6. Chapter 6 Haymitch

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Songs for Chapter 6 are "Your Favorite Color is Green" and "Primrose" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Chap. 6 Haymitch

It is a lazy Thursday afternoon; I realize that I am bored, not restless, but _bored_. I can't go out to the deeper woods because Peeta says he has enough meat to set on the table for days, so hunting isn't an option. I don't like going into the newly arisen town, there are too many eyes. So, I decide I'll go see _him_.

I haven't spoken to Haymitch for a while. We occasionally see each other in the afternoon when I go out on my walk. He'll be standing on the porch, usually still in his robe, with a bottle in one hand. He'll nod back to my hello, but he never speaks.

Peeta is in the garden tending the primroses. At the sight of the flowers, the face of my kid sister flashes in my memory. It doesn't hurt as much to remember now; it just gives me an empty feeling. I guess I have, what people call, "moved on."

"Peeta," I say, and he turns around and grins. "I'm going over to see Haymitch."

"OK," he replies. "Check and make sure he's taking care of himself." We both know that Haymitch "taking care of himself" is eating, maybe even bathing, since his favorite activity is killing himself daily with alcohol. Ok, so maybe not daily. He has gotten better after…..after everything. He drinks to forget.

Peeta stands up from his kneeling position, wipes his hands on his pants, and puts his arms around me and his chin on my shoulder. "Are you ok?" he whispers.

I nod. We both know I am still scared, scared both about the baby _not_ surviving the pregnancy, and the baby _surviving_. But, nearly three months into it, and the baby seems to be thriving. I wish many times every day that I will be a good enough mother for Peeta's child.

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I knock on the side door to Haymitch's place. The door is open from the inside, only the screen separates the out from the in. The paint is peeling on the siding and on the door. Weeds surround the house. Everywhere in the yard there are empty bottles; some are broken. Peeta has tried cleaning up Haymitch's yard several times, and even tried to paint the house, but a few nasty words from Haymitch make even good-meaning Peeta's visits to clean up, few and far between.

After knocking once more and getting not even a "Go away!" from Haymitch, I open the screen door. I wince at the _creak!_ it makes, but continue in. I am almost knocked off my feet by the smell of vomit, burnt food, and alcohol. I nearly throw up, but manage to keep lunch down. Don't want Peeta's cheese rolls going to waste.

As I wade through the 3 inches of garbage that make up the floor, I inspect the house's interior. The elaborately stenciled walls are stained. What I can see of the carpet is discolored and yellow. No lights are on. The sun pours through an open window in the parlor, exposing the dust dancing in the air. Haymitch is lying on the couch, bottle in hand, knife in the other. He took to sleeping with a knife soon after he won his Games, only now he isn't asleep. Haymitch is staring straight at me, and I defiantly stare back at him. He must have woken up at the creak of the door.

I take in the thoroughly greasy, dirty blonde mop of hair hanging down his face, the week old clothes he is wearing, including the soiled robe, and the boots that are on his feet, dried mud caked to their soles.

At the boots I raise my eyebrows, and finally speak to Haymitch. "Haymitch, what were you doing in the woods?"

"Well good morning to you too, sweetheart." Haymitch yawns in reply, "Shouldn't I be asking also, what you are doing in my house?"

"It's already 3 o'clock Haymitch. Now what were you doing in the woods?" I try to make my voice firm, and intimidating. It doesn't work on Haymitch.

"Can a guy not go out for a stroll in the woods if he wants?" Haymitch rubs his eyes, thankfully though, _after_ he has let the knife drop to the floor.

"Not if the guy is you. You don't know how to defend yourself from anything, especially not when drunk."

"Do not be so quick to judge sweetheart," says Haymitch as he shakily stands. "I haven't taken a drink in 14 hours and 34 minutes." He tosses the bottle towards me. I catch it, and curse inwardly at Haymitch, and then realize that the bottle is unopened. I look up at Haymitch in surprise, but he has turned away and started to shed his filthy robe.

"It's hard, more than hard, to give up something like this." His voice is raspy, but quiet. "And I don't think I'll be able to in the time I've got left."

I start to speak but he cuts me off, "No, I'm not saying I'm dying right now, but I've wasted a long time, so many years, finding quiet, undisturbed sleep in a bottle. The dreams weren't as bad when I wasn't fully myself." He starts to peel his shirt off, and I turn away to give him a little privacy. He continues pouring out the thoughts that have invaded and perturbed his mind these long years.

"The memories those dreams held belonged to Haymitch, not the creature I was when drunk. I _do_ want the dreams to stop, the flashbacks to go away, but they're not going to. Drinking isn't going to stop them unless it kills me." He's finished dressing, and I turn around to look at him. Haymitch is turned towards me, but is seeing not a small, troubled, brown-haired girl similar in experience to him, but is seeing a past life, one that replays with every blink, with every sunset, with every look at the mirror. A life that one can never forget, never wash clean, never say sorry for. You can't ask for forgiveness from the dead. You can't go back to tell even those who lived before the Games, tell them to stop fighting, to make the word better, not darker. To not thirst for blood, but love.

Haymitch's hair is disheveled, but he is wearing a fresh brown, felt vest over a navy blue, long sleeve shirt. He wears brown, _velvet_ pants, probably from the Capital stores that were stormed and distributed. He is wearing dusty black slippers that have seen better days.

"Haymitch." I want to tell him….tell him _something_ that will help, _anything_. Nothing comes. I decide to just tell him what I feel, what I do to soften the memories of the past.

"Haymitch," I begin again. "I don't know how to make the past stay away. Especially when I wake up every morning to see a person from it. Peeta. But, I don't let the darkness of bygone days cover and spoil the time that is left. Peeta says to try to find the bright spots of life. Usually they're simple, but something that we can't live without."

Haymitch sighs and turns away, but I continue. "At first I was doubtful too. But then I started to realize that there was more light left in my life than I knew. The list was longer than I thought it could be. I have Peeta. I have a home. Peeta and I are well. We're usually pretty happy. I live next door to one of my best friends." Haymitch looks up at this, but I don't stop.

"I only have nightmares a few times a week now, not every time I sleep. The Games-the Games are over. No one wants to hurt us." My voice quickens as I see the mental list grow. I even say the very simple things that add light to my day.

"I don't have to cook, and Peeta doesn't expect me to. Peeta lets me use as much sugar in the oatmeal as I want. Last night he made more cheese rolls. I finally got down how to do laundry. I rarely ever think about my scars. Peeta loves me all the better for them. Oh, Haymitch, I have a future, I do." I place a hand on my stomach.

The baby isn't noticeable from the outside yet. No one who didn't know could ever tell that there was a life there. A life growing, a life anxiously awaited, a life wanted, a life loved.

"Peeta and I-are soon going to be happier than ever. Maybe-maybe you could find joy in that as well?"

Haymitch looks quickly up at me, gives a quick smile, and starts for the kitchen. "Maybe," he says as he reaches the fridge. "But right now I….."

My hopeful smile disappears as he pulls out a small, green bottle of beer. "I need a drink. Uh, congratulations."

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That night, in bed, I tell Peeta everything that happened during my visit with Haymitch. At first he laughs, then he sighs, and then his ponderous frown appears.

"Peeta, he's going to kill himself."

Peeta takes my hand and strokes it with a finger. "He can't-he doesn't have anything else to fall back on. I have you. But Haymitch….."

"He has us!"

"No Katniss, he doesn't need a friend, he needs someone to love. This adds to the shock of the past, that he doesn't have anyone. If I didn't have you, I would probably be the same way."

I grab the hand that holds mine with my free hand, "No Peeta, you would have someone else, find someone else."

Peeta's grasp on my hand tightens, "Katniss, never, I could never love someone as I do you!"

I know this is true, and the same would be true for me. I realize that I need to stop worrying about everything, because I can't fix everything. I have to be happy about what is just fine, and only try to fix things when I can fix them.

But still, there is regret, there is pity, and these feelings are hard to shove away, impossible to forget.

"Oh, Peeta, I am so glad I have you!" And Peeta tells and shows me that he thinks the same about me.

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Sorry for the break, loyal readers! Remember, feel free to suggest future happenings in the lives of Peeta and Katniss (and future little Mellark(s)!), and to suggest characters you wish me to highlight in future chapters. You are welcome to offer up kind, constructing and helpful criticism about my work, to help me improve.

Thank you for reading! May the stories be always in your heart, and the odds forever in your favor!


	7. Chapter 7 I Can't Cook

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 7 is/are "Your Favorite Color is Green" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack and "Midsummer Night" by Brian Crain.

Chap. 7 I Can't Cook

I am just starting my third month of my pregnancy when Peeta tries for the thousandth time to get me interested in a hobby. He knows I use hunting as a distraction, but I can't come home every day to add to an already overstuffed pantry. And, I can't be with Peeta _and_ hunt at the same time. He's too loud; he'll scare any game away. But I can't stand around the house all day.

As we eat an early supper, well, Peeta eats, I pick at the food; he brings up possible projects I could try to start. Sewing? No. Only when I need to mend something, or stitch a wound. Drawing? Only one of us has the knack for it. Knitting? Really? He has to ask? Music? No, I don't have the patience.

It is at his last suggestion, music, that I am reminded of the time soon after my first Games. Cinna, Effie, Portia and Peeta all tried to get me into a hobby. Effie told me it would make me 'more interesting to the public.' Cinna offered up that an interesting mentor, for that is what I would have soon been, would be able to convince people to support victors. In the end, Cinna and I pulled together a plot. He designed fabulous outfits, and I displayed them for all the cameras, all of Panem, to see as my own.

Only a select few, those who really knew me, knew that I didn't care about clothes that much. I unconsciously start to think about the people who really knew me then. As the faces go by in my mind, I start to shiver.

"Katniss?"

Peeta pulls me out.

"You ok?" I nod, and try hard to calm my shivering. I can't show Peeta how terrible the visions have been lately. What with the baby now, I fear now, not only the past, but the future. I curse myself inwardly for getting pregnant. How could I let it happen? Why didn't I try harder to prevent it? Why didn't I just tell Peeta not to go farther? Why? _Why_?

Because I love him. Real. I know I am willing to have Peeta's baby, even if _I_ take no pleasure in it at all.

"Katniss." Peeta pulls me out from my thoughts again.

"I'm fine." I say to his worried look.

"Has the baby been keeping you awake?"

I force a chuckle and shake my head. "No, not yet. I'm just-just tired. I do sleep, really."

I see Peeta is still skeptical, but he drops the look, and smiles.

"So…how about…..reading?"

I groan. "I hate reading! Please, I'm fine. I can…cope, really. I can just…take walks or something."

"But then you're not where I can watch you." He counters, and then chuckles. He knows he sometimes treats me like a child, but for good reason, though it's hard to admit.

"Peeta, you're going to make a great daddy." I smile, and spear a bite of rabbit.

His chuckle slips into sunshine grin, and I know I've said the right thing. We don't talk about the baby much, yet. But Peeta is excited. I think he hopes some of his eagerness will rub off onto me.

"And you, Katniss, are going to be the best mom ever."

I don't reply, just continue eating my supper. I hope I can keep this most of it down. My morning sickness, contrary to its name, has plagued me from morning 'til night. Yeah, whoever called it _morning_ sickness-well, they lied. It was probably either a guy who only ever saw his wife ill in the morning, or a woman who was never pregnant.

"How about cooking?"

I roll my eyes. "Peeta, you know I can't cook. Well, maybe cereal….and water."

Peeta chuckles again, he's been doing it a lot lately. "Come on. Let's try again."

I sigh. I'll have to take 'I can't cook, and Peeta doesn't expect me to' off of my list of things to be grateful. Maybe if I'm extra terrible, and whatever he has me make isn't fit to be smelled, let alone eaten, he might not make me try again.

"Fine." I grudgingly indulge him.

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After we clear the dishes into the sink, Peeta begins to pull out large mixing bowls, flour, yeast, and other basic baking supplies. He whistles a tune I faintly recognize as he arranges the multitude of ingredients gathered onto the counter.

"What do want me to make?" I ask him as I scan the ingredients. "Really, we don't have to make anything big or anything. Don't waste any ingredients on me."

Peeta looks up at me, and gives me a smile that makes my heart speed up and my face flush. "It's not wasting, not on you."

I draw near, and sigh as he pulls out a thick recipe book of very, very elaborate cakes and cookies. The title reads, _Elaborate Creations for the Experienced Pastry Chef_. Yep, I'm definitely going to make a mess of things. I've looked through the book before, and practically drooled over the touched up pictures of moist, dense chocolate cakes and delicately, frosted tea cookies. How he thinks I might be able to complete a recipe from it is beyond my understanding.

I complain, but he is able to tie an apron onto me, an ugly affair with white polka dots against a dark blue background. He thrusts the book into my hands. "Choose."

I glare at him, but I did agree, so I sit down at the table, and flip through. I need something simple and relatively easy. The simplest things I know of, well, simple is stretching it, are cookies. I look through the contents page and find the section labeled 'Cookies and Other Simple Teatime Creations.' The section is divided into the different kinds of cookies. Chocolate….page 27, Caramel…page 36, Fruity…48, I gag at that one, Salted…page 60, something called No-Bake…page 71, and other atrocities. I go to the chocolate section, and find a recipe I recognize. Chocolate Chip. The picture of the finished product is drool worthy, but I doubt _my_ finished product will resemble anything close to a cookie, and will be more likely to make a person barf than drool.

"How about Chocolate Chip cookies?" I hold up the book so Peeta can see, although he probably has the recipe down, probably knew how to make them before he was born.

"Sure, Chocolate Chip it is."

I know enough to find the obvious ingredient, chocolate chips, among the ingredient army set up on the counter. I set them on the large granite topped island in the middle of the kitchen. I also the find sugar, I know it to be a completely necessary ingredient in desserts. After that I have to look back into the book. Peeta helps by putting the baking tools I'll need onto the island. A cookie pan…sheet, whatever. Cooking spray. A few hot pads. A spoon.

I look back into the book for the last few ingredients. Peeta chuckles as I repeat their names, and then mutter a sarcastic remark to go to each of them.

"All-purpose flour. Like it can do _everything_. Hot water. Why do you need hot water, why can't it be cold for goodness sakes! Eggs. What? Why? Walnuts? What if I don't even _want_ walnuts in my cookies, huh? What in the world is vanilla _extract_? Is it a liquid? Wait."

I finally am able to find all of the needed ingredients, excluding the walnuts.

"Now, I follow the directions?"

Peeta steps up from where he's been leaning against the counter, waiting for me. "Yep."

He ends up helping me by doing most of everything. But he makes sure that I'm watching it all. He has me pour the chocolate chips in. Has me scoop out the dough with a spoon onto the pan.

"Why are they so small? Don't you have to squish them to make them flat?" I know nothing of baking.

"They'll spread out when we've had them in the oven for a while." He assures me.

"But can't we make them bigger?" I mash one with my fist. Now it looks somewhat like the cookie I know. Peeta examines the smashed dough.

"How about you do this part your way? Ok? I'll clean up." He turns away and starts to pile the bowls and measuring cups into the sink with the supper dishes. I am suspicious, but go ahead and smash all of the small mounds of dough. I decide to use up the rest of the dough to make a giant cookie. I fill half of the pan with the so called "normal" sized cookies, and use the other half of the sheet to hold a giant cookie pancake. I flatten it perfectly.

When I tell Peeta that the cookies are ready, he slides the pan into the preheated oven and sets the timer.

"So, do you like cooking so far?" He asks as we lean against the island. I don't look away from the cookies, _my_ cookies baking in the lit oven.

"It's more complicated than I imagined. How do you do it Peeta?" I turn to look at him. He has a smudge of flour on his cheek.

"Oh, it's not that hard. You just need to practice." He turns to look at me.

I move away from him to kneel in front of the oven. The cookies have spread out a lot. They're bigger than the cookies Peeta makes.

"Ugh, I hope these turn out. They probably won't. I seem to ruin every food I touch." I look down at the floor, and I add on in a nearly-inaudible whisper. "I ruin…. _everything_ I touch. Like _fire_."

"What?" Peeta kneels next to me. He places a hand on my back. "Katniss, what's wrong?"

I don't answer. I just stare into the oven. The orange glow inside of it hurts my eyes, but I don't look away. It resembles a fire.

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We kneel there for a long time. The timer going off startles me. Peeta jumps up and grabs the hot pads. "Katniss, careful." I move out of the way. They smell heavenly as Peeta pulls them from the oven and sets the pan onto a waiting hot pad on the island. They're larger than normal, but other than that they look fine. I breathe a sigh of relief. Peeta did most of the mixing and stuff, so they have to taste good. I barely did anything. We wait for them to cool. Peeta pulls out a pitcher of milk from the fridge, I grab the glasses.

"They look great, Katniss. And that large one, that's brilliant. It's like a-a cake."

"Thank you." I say, beaming. These have to turn out now that they've received Peeta's approval. I hold up the spatula, and go for the giant cookie.

It won't separate from the pan.

"Ugh." I try again, shoving the spatula against the edge of the cookie. I try again. And again. I offer Peeta the spatula, and he tries to lift every single one to no avail.

"Uh, well. Did you spray the pan with baking spray before you put the dough down?"

My cheeks go red, and I stare at the can of baking spray staring at me, taunting me from the end of the island. "Uh, no."

Peeta bites his lips, and shakes with bottled-up laughter.

I wave my hand at him, and proceed to take off the ridiculous apron. "Go ahead, laugh." And he does.

I roll my eyes at him and jerk at the ties of the apron. Peeta sees me struggling with them, and attempts to curb his laughter. "Here, let me help."

His hands are warm as they brush up against my back, disentangling the knot I have created. I try not to, but my eyes land on the can of baking spray, and then the cookies. I start to shake.

"Katniss?" Peeta turns me around in his arms, the knot forgotten. His worry is erased from his face when he realizes that I am trying not to laugh. He starts of chuckling again, and then crushes me close against him.

After a minute, with tears running down our faces, we separate. "Now," I say, "Help me get this thing off." Peeta again starts to untangle the ties. "And then we can enjoy the fantabulous cookies that your dear little wife has made for you." It sets him off again.

We do enjoy those cookies. And as we dip the pieces we were able to pry off of the pan into our milk, I pray I will always remember this moment with Peeta. Including the embarrassing display of my ignorance. Peeta holds my hand, and want nothing more in the world just at that moment.

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I am truly sorry for the break, loyal readers!

Remember, feel free to suggest future happenings in the lives of Peeta and Katniss (and future little Mellark(s)!), and to suggest characters you wish me to highlight in future chapters. You are welcome to offer up kind, constructing and helpful criticism about my work, to help me improve.

Thank you for reading! May the stories be always in your heart, and the odds forever in your favor!

P.s. Chocolate cookies B duh best! (With milk, of course.)


	8. Chap 8 District 12-Medical Care Distr

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 8 is/are "Your Favorite Color is Green" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack and "Red Dawn" by Enzo

Chap. 8-District 12: Medical Care District

After the chocolate chip cookie incident, I stay far from the kitchen for a while. Peeta isn't going to get me in there baking if I have anything to say about it. Unless he gives me that look, of course.

Although, because of my determined boycott of the kitchen, I won't be spending as much time as I like with Peeta. So I decide to spy on the old District 12.

I pull on a dark gray jacket over my dark green t-shirt and pull the hood over my face. I am also wearing black jeans. I pull on worn, brow leather boots. I always have worn dark and dismal colors. It reflects my personality. I yell a "Be back later" to Peeta, and step out of the door. It is cold outside, but I'll warm up if I get moving. I try to stay behind buildings, only peeking out between them when I am sure no one is around.

Whatever District 12 used to be is forgotten beneath the new, white and gray medical or other buildings. The buildings will soon hold the most advanced medical equipment in Panem. That means whoever even gets a cold is going to order from District 12, and whoever is feeling worse than bad is going to make there way straight to my once quiet home. I feel like my terf is over run.

Behind and among the clinics and small warehouses are houses, homes. And they're not all full of medical employees. Not everyone who ran from District 12 almost two years ago stayed away. Even Hazelle, Gale's mother, and her younger brood have returned. I know this because Peeta saw them. When he told me, I didn't reply. I don't want to see anyone from my ash covered past. Anyone, except Peeta.

White gravel walks have replaced the mud and dust covered roads that used to web through 12. Small bushes of some kind have been transplanted at 4 foot intervals on the edges of the new walk. They're brown from the cold, and ugly.

District 12 was relatively quiet before everything fell into chaos. Quiet as in no unusual noises. There had been the machinery grinding inside the mine, the younger children shrieking and chasing each other in the mud, the mothers swishing laundry in brown water, and calling to each other across the way, the grumbling and mumbling from the Hob. District 12 wasn't quiet, but it was always the same.

Now at every turn there is an unfamiliar and almost frightening noise. Small cranes lifting tiles onto a roof, medical personnel walking patients around, people shouting at each other across the hustle, it is near deafening compared to the familiarity of the old District 12.

I notice the two doctors that Peeta and I met a few months ago. Their blinding smiles are so fake. They talk to each other as they walk down the gravel walk, their arms clasped behind their backs. One of them steps away to speak to a woman in white apparel, a nurse? The other waits for him. I have a sudden short moment of childish logic that if I start to throw rocks at them all...they'll go away. I drop the handful of gravel that somehow made its way into my hand. Let the old Capitol citizens find out just how hard real work is, let them chase themselves out.

I soon find myself jogging along the fence that separates home from danger. Soon it is going to be replaced with a newer more durable one. It's a good plan. To throw out all of the old pieces of our lives. Out of sight, out of mind. The thing is though, I can't throw Peeta away like I have done to so many things. Like the real mink fur gloves from Cinna, I would never wear them again anyway. Peeta is a part of me, a necessary part of me. You can't throw away the apart of you that keeps you sane, that keeps you alive.

I run for along a good 8 miles of the fence, and then turn back to head home. Soon the baby will get so big that I am going to be unable to go out and run like this. I doubt Peeta will let me go out often at all. I slow down a bit. The sky us changing into its evening shade. Dark blue. I probably wont vet to see this color change soon. Do all expecting mothers, for that is what I am now, think like this? I hate thinking about the future. I am going to be a terrible mother.

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Once home, I quickly gulp down a few bowls of white chili before Peeta's astonished eyes. I am starving. Stupid morning sickness, you're going to make me so far. No, the baby has seen to that. This child is going to change everything.

"I'm going to take a shower." I say. I'm hoping Peeta will hurry up with his first bowl of chili so he can join me.

"Okay." That's all he says before he serves himself another bowl.

Disappointed, I trudge up the stairs. I stink. I peel off my sweaty clothes and step into the shower. As I undo my braid, I start to think. Is Peeta not wanting to spend time with me? Is this is what couples with children are like? Does-does Peeta think I am getting fat? I quickly look down at my stomach. It doesn't pudge out anymore than normal. All girls have a belly. But soon...

Peeta doesn't come to bed until the sky is black. And even then he only kisses me on the cheek, and rolls over...away from me. This is so unlike Peeta, but is this how it will always be soon. A fugitive tear slides down my cheek just where Peeta kissed me. Angry at myself for crying, I swipe the tear away. I hate crying. I sort out that I just must not be thinking straight. Pregnant women, they-they are over emotional.

I turn over and stare at the back of my husband's flaxen haired head. In the dim light, Peeta likes to keep the hallway light on, I can see where the blonde strands meet his slightly tanned neck. I go to sleep listening to his breathing, determined to only dream about Peeta. But of course, we can't quite choose what we dream about. I do dream about Peeta, but I saw him in a nightmare.

-  
Thanks for reading! Remember to tell me about any adventures you'd like our beloved characters to have, and I may consider putting them in future chapters!

I hope you remain patient with me as the chapter slowly make their way into the story.

May the odds be ever in your favor, and the stories always in your heart.

~UnclaimedDemigod


	9. Chapter 9-Remember

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 9 is/are "Healing Katniss" and "The Cave" from The Hunger Games soundtrack.

Chap. 9-Remember

I envy the women who enjoy being roly-polies for nine months, who actually appreciate being pregnant. Here I am, going on six months, and I'm already sick (literally at times) of being pregnant.

I remember my mother when she was pregnant with Prim. I was 4 years old and didn't understand why my mother seemed to be blowing up like the rising dough I'd seen just once at the bakery; I'd see the dough one visit when my father and I went to the bakery to sell a fat female squirrel. The lump had sat on a floured table behind the baker. As my father chatted with the baker through the open door, I saw the great lump swell greatly in size. I'd asked my father why it blew up like that when we were on our way home. Father had said it was magic, when I asked my mother later if that was true, she'd explained that it was yeast. I never ever did taste that kind of fresh, white bread that had been rumored to be so soft and delicious, at least not until the Games.

I thought that because my mother's stomach was blowing up, that she had swallowed some yeast; when I was told that there was actually a baby in that swollen ball of my mother's stomach, I'd slowly nodded, my fears relieved, and gone back to playing with the carved wooden birds my father had made for me.

I would watch my mother for hours, watch her waddling around the house humming merry tunes, occasionally softly caressing her stomach. I don't remember very much of her being sick in the mornings, but I count that as a good thing.

When Prim arrived, I was, in fact, slightly curious. She wasn't really different from other babies I had seen. Ugly, pink, wrinkled, and skinny. Babies from District 12 weren't ever exactly plump and rosy like the fat, overfed Capitol babies. Even though she looked like the other infants in my memory, I felt drawn to her. That would have been the invisible, unbreakable bond that is automatically forged between family members at birth.

I often helped my mother change Prim's smelly cloth nappies. The nappies, or diapers, were nothing more than scraps of cloth confiscated from trash heaps, and were then washed as best as they could be. I would watch Prim while my mother washed those nasty bits of soiled cloth. I remember being fascinated at the strong grip she held my thumb with; my thumb would fade into white as the circulation was cut off. When she first laughed, I jumped; she had much too loud a laugh for one as young as her. Her laugh was contagious though, and whoever was lucky enough to be around when her odd laugh sounded, they had no choice but to join in.

Prim learned to "talk" before she took her first steps. She would babble away, one fist in her mouth, saliva dripping down chin. I would carry on near one-sided conversations with her. I would talk about father's forest lessons, about which berries weren't safe to eat, while Prim would look into my eyes with her adoring gray orbs. She would occasionally add in a serious sounding "comment."

After she learned how to walk well enough to leave the shack without an adult's hand to steady her, she would follow me around. I didn't go far from the shack unless father took me out to the forest for lessons, and then Prim wasn't brought along; days were usually filled with singing songs he taught me, I would try to teach them to Prim. Prim also amused herself by calling out to the people walking past the shack, babbling nonsense that everyone found cute. I thought it cute for the first 2 months, but I couldn't wait until she could actually speak real words.

Prim's first word wasn't significant in the sense that it wasn't a name, no "Mamas" or "Daddys" here. Not even _my_ name; no, I, who watched her for more hours a day than my mother, was not even worthy enough for Prim's first word. No, but apparently the nappies were. Prim had just detonated a nice little present all up her back and on the floor where she had been standing, all red-faced and focused. After her work was done and she was found out, Mother had her stand out on the front step while she washed the delightful nappy in a tub behind the shack.

My sister didn't look guilty at all, too young I guess. She just giggled at my appalled expression and gurgled out her first word, "Nappy." I remember I chuckled with her before I realized what had just happened, and ran inside to tell our mother. My mother had beamed; pride shown out from every sharp angle of her face.

I shake myself from the ancient feeling memories. Let the dust settle and stay on them from now on. I know if I think too long, if I dig into the grimy confines of my mind, I'll find the newer, more recent happenings. The blood-soaked ones.

I don't want to go inside. I've been sitting here on the back porch of the house Peeta and I call home. The fresh spring air makes the escaped wisps of hair from my loose braid dance. The baby grass sways. The birds have put away their arguments from the winter months and are chirping happily in the small trees.

I'm watching three or four men plant trees down the wide road just outside of the Victor's Village. The mud brought on by the rains looks easy to pull up. It doesn't take the sturdy men long to move quickly on down the road. Once Peeta told me they were starting to plant trees all throughout 12, I'd asked-no, _demanded_ a few for our own yard. Peeta not only achieved that but helped plant several trees around the Village. He was even able to plant one in Haymitch's yard without Haymitch's noticing.

On the topic of making 12 better, I wish they'd pull out the elaborate, ugly gate surrounding the Village. Once upon a time it used to be a stark white, now the paint has mostly peeled off and rust has taken over. Yeah, a paint job isn't going to be enough to make a presentable beauty of it. It used to suit me just fine; it made me feel protected from snooping eyes. Now it makes me feel imprisoned.

I take a deep breath of the fresh air, and simultaneously fill my lungs with the restlessness that inevitably comes with spring. Peeta tells me I shouldn't go out to the woods now that I'm farther along. I stubbornly go out every once in a while, but usually keep my restless feet within the confines of the Village.

Every once in a while, I'll explore the empty Victor's houses. The doors are kept unlocked, which make the houses easy pickings for everyone. They aren't really "homey" inside. They used to have the standard, impersonal decorations and furniture, but now, stripped of their décor, the houses are naked and gloomy. Yeah, I don't visit them very often. Only our house and Haymitch's show signs of life. Well….Haymitch's not so much.

I look over to Haymitch's house. Every single window is cracked in some way. Peeta tapes them over when he can, has replaced them a few times, but Haymitch often breaks them when he's not himself; or, should I say, when he _is_ himself. 98% of the time he is intoxicated. I'm never going to just accept this. I'll always harass him about his drinking; until he either kills himself with it or quits.

I sigh, and reach a hand up to the railing to lift my bulk up from my seated position. A hand intercepts mine and helps me up. Peeta. It seems like we don't talk much anymore, not enough. He's always in the office-turned-studio creating his wonders, the kitchen creating equal wonders, the garden working more wonders, or helping District 12 get back up on its feet. Like he's doing for me now.

"Ah, thanks." I mumble out. He stares into my eyes, a small smile on his lips. He looks tired. My tossing and turning while trying to get comfortable at night probably does that, that, that and the occasional nightmares we both have. I start to get uncomfortable when the staring gets past 20 seconds, I hope he doesn't notice the bulges of fat beneath my sweater, or my chubby arms and legs. Since when do I care _really_ what I look like? Since this baby started growing inside of me. I make to go inside.

Peeta catches my elbow, "Hey, sorry I've been busy. I've just….got stuff that needs to get done. It is spring after all." He gives such an apologetic look that I have to give a small smile in return. "It's fine, really. I find ways to amuse myself."

"No, it's not ok. We only see each other at supper and at night. I'll try to clear up my days for you."

"Sure, great." It is awkward. And I hate it that I don't feel comfortable enough to tell Peeta about how I feel, or about my day. About how I want to be with him all day. About how the baby moved again today, and that I didn't hardly even flinch. Well, I did have to grab onto the gate and breathe slowly to calm myself down, but, I wouldn't tell Peeta all that even if we were on comfortable speaking terms.

We make our way into the house. I like entering through the back door more than the front. I still, when entering through the front, feel like a guest. But when I go through the back and see the shoes piled on the floor, my bow and quiver leaning on the wall where I last left them, and our jackets on the rack, I feel at home.

We don't say a word as Peeta helps me out of my sweater, and I his. As we make our way down the hall towards the kitchen for a drink or something, the baby twitches. I freeze in the hallway, and Peeta immediately takes my hands and speaks in a low voice. "Katniss, it's fine, you're going to be fine. You can do this."

My eyes are scrunched tightly closed, but I know Peeta's eyebrows are furrowed, he's trying to smile and keep his voice light, and that his eyes are centered on my closed ones. His thumbs brush my tightly curled fists. Tremors wrack my body; my breathing hitches.

"Katniss." His voice is barely audible now; it is velvet, softly hurrying the images and thoughts in my head away. "You can do this. You're strong. You're not going to let anything happen, and I'm not. You're strong, you're beautiful. I love you Katniss. We can do this."

Tears stream down my face, and I gasp out, "Do you?" I slowly open my eyes. His blue orbs are confused. The bloodied visions and haunting memories slip away. My shaking slowly stills.

"Do you love me?"

After all that has happened, after all that our souls have been through, I doubt his love. After every sacrificial move he has made, I am uncertain as to his devotion.

"Katniss, I-wha- _do I love you_?" The shock in his voice reverberates through my being. I've hurt him. "Do I love you?" he repeats. "Katniss, you know I love you. You know I'd walk on water for you. I'd lose _all_ my limbs if it could just mean I could be yours. I'd-I'd jump off of a cliff if you'd just kiss me all day." The charming laugh in his voice at that makes me hate myself even more.

"I don't care if you're 200 or 2,000 pounds Katniss," I role my eyes. "Or if you're as old as the country. I love you, and even I can't do anything about that."

He pulls me close, and- _and everything's ok_.

The baby between us shrugs uncomfortably. We both laugh and pull apart. Peeta rests a hand on my hilariously protruding abdomen and waits for his child to make a move.

I watch his hand. I watch my belly jump. I listen to Peeta's chuckle; see the laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. Looking up, I see the gigantic mirror on the hallway wall. I look at our reflections. Peeta has dirt on the seat of his pants, clearly he has worked in the garden today; his shirt is rumpled. His hair is tousled and dirty. His strong, brown, dirt-dusted arm gently rests on my baby bump; his eyes intently watching it.

My eyes slip to myself. My eyes are red, the skin around them is puffed up. My figure isn't enviable, but now I don't care as much. Funny how being pregnant changes and grows character. Before everything I didn't care. Now I worry about the flab on my arms. The extra padding on my thighs.

The baby moves again. "Katniss, that's our baby. _Our_ baby." I look into his excited eyes, er, in the mirror reflection of them. I grin. This baby brings that out in both of us, the excitement. The hope. Peeta looks back down, expectancy obvious in his expression.

I look back at my face in the mirror. I'm shocked at the expression I see. It is that of my mother, just when I told her about Prim's first word. It is an expression of the pure proudness of a mother. A mother. That's what I am now. And Peeta is a father.

We've come far, miles. And I realize, aside from most of the blood and pain, I wouldn't trade an inch of it.

I hope I'll always remember little revelations like this. And small moments. Like now, how Peeta's smile lights as the baby quivers. He plants an excited kiss on my lips.

Yes, I'll remember.

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Apologies to Pluto and back about the extensive and unintentional break! Hope this chapter will keep you happy until I find time amid the ocean of school and life to write.

May the odds be ever in your favor, and the stories always in your heart!

-UnclaimedDemigod


	10. Chapter 10-Hope and Motherhood

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 9 is/are "Healing Katniss" and "The Cave" from The Hunger Games soundtrack.

Chap. 9-Remember

I envy the women who enjoy being roly-polies for nine months, who actually appreciate being pregnant. Here I am, going on six months, and I'm already sick (literally at times) of being pregnant.

I remember my mother when she was pregnant with Prim. I was 4 years old and didn't understand why my mother seemed to be blowing up like the rising dough I'd seen just once at the bakery; I'd see the dough one visit when my father and I went to the bakery to sell a fat female squirrel. The lump had sat on a floured table behind the baker. As my father chatted with the baker through the open door, I saw the great lump swell greatly in size. I'd asked my father why it blew up like that when we were on our way home. Father had said it was magic, when I asked my mother later if that was true, she'd explained that it was yeast. I never ever did taste that kind of fresh, white bread that had been rumored to be so soft and delicious, at least not until the Games.

I thought that because my mother's stomach was blowing up, that she had swallowed some yeast; when I was told that there was actually a baby in that swollen ball of my mother's stomach, I'd slowly nodded, my fears relieved, and gone back to playing with the carved wooden birds my father had made for me.

I would watch my mother for hours, watch her waddling around the house humming merry tunes, occasionally softly caressing her stomach. I don't remember very much of her being sick in the mornings, but I count that as a good thing.

When Prim arrived, I was, in fact, slightly curious. She wasn't really different from other babies I had seen. Ugly, pink, wrinkled, and skinny. Babies from District 12 weren't ever exactly plump and rosy like the fat, overfed Capitol babies. Even though she looked like the other infants in my memory, I felt drawn to her. That would have been the invisible, unbreakable bond that is automatically forged between family members at birth.

I often helped my mother change Prim's smelly cloth nappies. The nappies, or diapers, were nothing more than scraps of cloth confiscated from trash heaps, and were then washed as best as they could be. I would watch Prim while my mother washed those nasty bits of soiled cloth. I remember being fascinated at the strong grip she held my thumb with; my thumb would fade into white as the circulation was cut off. When she first laughed, I jumped; she had much too loud a laugh for one as young as her. Her laugh was contagious though, and whoever was lucky enough to be around when her odd laugh sounded, they had no choice but to join in.

Prim learned to "talk" before she took her first steps. She would babble away, one fist in her mouth, saliva dripping down chin. I would carry on near one-sided conversations with her. I would talk about father's forest lessons, about which berries weren't safe to eat, while Prim would look into my eyes with her adoring gray orbs. She would occasionally add in a serious sounding "comment."

After she learned how to walk well enough to leave the shack without an adult's hand to steady her, she would follow me around. I didn't go far from the shack unless father took me out to the forest for lessons, and then Prim wasn't brought along; days were usually filled with singing songs he taught me, I would try to teach them to Prim. Prim also amused herself by calling out to the people walking past the shack, babbling nonsense that everyone found cute. I thought it cute for the first 2 months, but I couldn't wait until she could actually speak real words.

Prim's first word wasn't significant in the sense that it wasn't a name, no "Mamas" or "Daddys" here. Not even _my_ name; no, I, who watched her for more hours a day than my mother, was not even worthy enough for Prim's first word. No, but apparently the nappies were. Prim had just detonated a nice little present all up her back and on the floor where she had been standing, all red-faced and focused. After her work was done and she was found out, Mother had her stand out on the front step while she washed the delightful nappy in a tub behind the shack.

My sister didn't look guilty at all, too young I guess. She just giggled at my appalled expression and gurgled out her first word, "Nappy." I remember I chuckled with her before I realized what had just happened, and ran inside to tell our mother. My mother had beamed; pride shown out from every sharp angle of her face.

I shake myself from the ancient feeling memories. Let the dust settle and stay on them from now on. I know if I think too long, if I dig into the grimy confines of my mind, I'll find the newer, more recent happenings. The blood-soaked ones.

I don't want to go inside. I've been sitting here on the back porch of the house Peeta and I call home. The fresh spring air makes the escaped wisps of hair from my loose braid dance. The baby grass sways. The birds have put away their arguments from the winter months and are chirping happily in the small trees.

I'm watching three or four men plant trees down the wide road just outside of the Victor's Village. The mud brought on by the rains looks easy to pull up. It doesn't take the sturdy men long to move quickly on down the road. Once Peeta told me they were starting to plant trees all throughout 12, I'd asked-no, _demanded_ a few for our own yard. Peeta not only achieved that but helped plant several trees around the Village. He was even able to plant one in Haymitch's yard without Haymitch's noticing.

On the topic of making 12 better, I wish they'd pull out the elaborate, ugly gate surrounding the Village. Once upon a time it used to be a stark white, now the paint has mostly peeled off and rust has taken over. Yeah, a paint job isn't going to be enough to make a presentable beauty of it. It used to suit me just fine; it made me feel protected from snooping eyes. Now it makes me feel imprisoned.

I take a deep breath of the fresh air, and simultaneously fill my lungs with the restlessness that inevitably comes with spring. Peeta tells me I shouldn't go out to the woods now that I'm farther along. I stubbornly go out every once in a while, but usually keep my restless feet within the confines of the Village.

Every once in a while, I'll explore the empty Victor's houses. The doors are kept unlocked, which make the houses easy pickings for everyone. They aren't really "homey" inside. They used to have the standard, impersonal decorations and furniture, but now, stripped of their décor, the houses are naked and gloomy. Yeah, I don't visit them very often. Only our house and Haymitch's show signs of life. Well….Haymitch's not so much.

I look over to Haymitch's house. Every single window is cracked in some way. Peeta tapes them over when he can, has replaced them a few times, but Haymitch often breaks them when he's not himself; or, should I say, when he _is_ himself. 98% of the time he is intoxicated. I'm never going to just accept this. I'll always harass him about his drinking; until he either kills himself with it or quits.

I sigh, and reach a hand up to the railing to lift my bulk up from my seated position. A hand intercepts mine and helps me up. Peeta. It seems like we don't talk much anymore, not enough. He's always in the office-turned-studio creating his wonders, the kitchen creating equal wonders, the garden working more wonders, or helping District 12 get back up on its feet. Like he's doing for me now.

"Ah, thanks." I mumble out. He stares into my eyes, a small smile on his lips. He looks tired. My tossing and turning while trying to get comfortable at night probably does that, that, that and the occasional nightmares we both have. I start to get uncomfortable when the staring gets past 20 seconds, I hope he doesn't notice the bulges of fat beneath my sweater, or my chubby arms and legs. Since when do I care _really_ what I look like? Since this baby started growing inside of me. I make to go inside.

Peeta catches my elbow, "Hey, sorry I've been busy. I've just….got stuff that needs to get done. It is spring after all." He gives such an apologetic look that I have to give a small smile in return. "It's fine, really. I find ways to amuse myself."

"No, it's not ok. We only see each other at supper and at night. I'll try to clear up my days for you."

"Sure, great." It is awkward. And I hate it that I don't feel comfortable enough to tell Peeta about how I feel, or about my day. About how I want to be with him all day. About how the baby moved again today, and that I didn't hardly even flinch. Well, I did have to grab onto the gate and breathe slowly to calm myself down, but, I wouldn't tell Peeta all that even if we were on comfortable speaking terms.

We make our way into the house. I like entering through the back door more than the front. I still, when entering through the front, feel like a guest. But when I go through the back and see the shoes piled on the floor, my bow and quiver leaning on the wall where I last left them, and our jackets on the rack, I feel at home.

We don't say a word as Peeta helps me out of my sweater, and I his. As we make our way down the hall towards the kitchen for a drink or something, the baby twitches. I freeze in the hallway, and Peeta immediately takes my hands and speaks in a low voice. "Katniss, it's fine, you're going to be fine. You can do this."

My eyes are scrunched tightly closed, but I know Peeta's eyebrows are furrowed, he's trying to smile and keep his voice light, and that his eyes are centered on my closed ones. His thumbs brush my tightly curled fists. Tremors wrack my body; my breathing hitches.

"Katniss." His voice is barely audible now; it is velvet, softly hurrying the images and thoughts in my head away. "You can do this. You're strong. You're not going to let anything happen, and I'm not. You're strong, you're beautiful. I love you Katniss. We can do this."

Tears stream down my face, and I gasp out, "Do you?" I slowly open my eyes. His blue orbs are confused. The bloodied visions and haunting memories slip away. My shaking slowly stills.

"Do you love me?"

After all that has happened, after all that our souls have been through, I doubt his love. After every sacrificial move he has made, I am uncertain as to his devotion.

"Katniss, I-wha- _do I love you_?" The shock in his voice reverberates through my being. I've hurt him. "Do I love you?" he repeats. "Katniss, you know I love you. You know I'd walk on water for you. I'd lose _all_ my limbs if it could just mean I could be yours. I'd-I'd jump off of a cliff if you'd just kiss me all day." The charming laugh in his voice at that makes me hate myself even more.

"I don't care if you're 200 or 2,000 pounds Katniss," I role my eyes. "Or if you're as old as the country. I love you, and even I can't do anything about that."

He pulls me close, and- _and everything's ok_.

The baby between us shrugs uncomfortably. We both laugh and pull apart. Peeta rests a hand on my hilariously protruding abdomen and waits for his child to make a move.

I watch his hand. I watch my belly jump. I listen to Peeta's chuckle; see the laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. Looking up, I see the gigantic mirror on the hallway wall. I look at our reflections. Peeta has dirt on the seat of his pants, clearly he has worked in the garden today; his shirt is rumpled. His hair is tousled and dirty. His strong, brown, dirt-dusted arm gently rests on my baby bump; his eyes intently watching it.

My eyes slip to myself. My eyes are red, the skin around them is puffed up. My figure isn't enviable, but now I don't care as much. Funny how being pregnant changes and grows character. Before everything I didn't care. Now I worry about the flab on my arms. The extra padding on my thighs.

The baby moves again. "Katniss, that's our baby. _Our_ baby." I look into his excited eyes, er, in the mirror reflection of them. I grin. This baby brings that out in both of us, the excitement. The hope. Peeta looks back down, expectancy obvious in his expression.

I look back at my face in the mirror. I'm shocked at the expression I see. It is that of my mother, just when I told her about Prim's first word. It is an expression of the pure proudness of a mother. A mother. That's what I am now. And Peeta is a father.

We've come far, miles. And I realize, aside from most of the blood and pain, I wouldn't trade an inch of it.

I hope I'll always remember little revelations like this. And small moments. Like now, how Peeta's smile lights as the baby quivers. He plants an excited kiss on my lips.

Yes, I'll remember.

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Apologies to Pluto and back about the extensive and unintentional break! Hope this chapter will keep you happy until I find time amid the ocean of school and life to write.

May the odds be ever in your favor, and the stories always in your heart!

-UnclaimedDemigod


	11. Chapter 11-Metallic

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 11 is/are "One in Ten" and "North," both by one of the greatest artists ever, _Sleeping at Last_.

Chap. 11-Metallic?

I'm sitting at ease on our living room couch. It is the middle of April. Peeta has asked me to take it easy in these last weeks of my pregnancy. Normally I would have refused; I feel just fine, but if anything I did, even if it was simply taking a stroll in the woods, if it hurt the baby, I would ever forgive myself, ever. I'm sure I'm being paranoid, surely my body, and this baby are more hardy than that, but it's better to be over-careful than not.

I was sitting fine and pretty, er, fine and chubby, when I swallowed reflexively, unconsciously, and tasted a foreign flavor. My first thought was that my tongue had found a piece of breakfast between my teeth, but I don't recall having nails for my meal.

Nails. Metal. That's it. I've identified the taste in my mouth. Sharp metal. An almost sour metallic tinge. Why am I tasting metal? Did I somehow, impossibly, bite a tip from a prong of my fork?

Also, why is my nose stuffy? I briefly consider allergies, but I don't recall them ever affecting me in all my years.

Worry sets in as soon as the thought _I'm sick_ plants itself inside of me. Will getting sick hurt the baby?

Anxious, and with some struggle, I push myself up from my relaxed position on the couch. I waddle over to Peeta's reading tablet which rests on the empty TV stand. Clicking it on, and then flicking upwards to unlock it, I tap the search bar.

I type my symptoms in.

As I hurriedly, albeit carefully, scroll through the results, my frantic mind deals with the fact that something could be going wrong. If something happened to the baby, especially this late-term, it would be a defeating blow.

Tears blur my eyes so that I am unable to read the article I just selected. My throat constricts, and I don't know if it is caused by my tears, or by whatever illness indwells my body.

I set the tablet down back on the stand. Holding my hands to my mouth, I gasp and sob; futilely grasping for control.

I haven't had an attack like this in 2 weeks and 3 days; I'd dared to hope they were over.

Still holding my hands firmly over my mouth, my shoulders heaving from my sobs, I begin the old routine. Hopefully it will work.

The familiar words vary slightly, as they always do, as they tumble from my mouth:

 _My name is Katniss Mellark._

 _I fought in the Games, twice._

 _I survived the Games, twice._

 _I am 20 years old._

 _I live in what used to be District 12._

 _There is no District 12._

 _District 12 is now the medicine and healing district._

 _Peeta is my husband._

 _Peeta loves me._

 _I am going to have a baby._

 _The baby is going to be a boy._

 _I love this baby._

 _Peeta loves this baby._

 _Everything is going to be fine._

 _Everything is going to…going to be…_.

It doesn't work, I'm still crying. I'm still shaking. Hope is losing the unfair wrestling match in my being, losing against Despair and Terror.

It takes me what seems like years to halt my tears; the rebellious hormones writhing in my body continue pouring them from over my lower eyelid, but finally the streams standstill.

One frantic, obvious thought saturates my mind: If I'm sick, what is going to happen to the baby?

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"Katniss?"

I turn around and meet Peeta's blue eyes. They're dark with concern; dark blue. A shallow furrow between his eyebrows, above his nose, reveals his anxiety. The undulation reminds me of the unseeded furrows in District 9 that we both, Peeta and I, gazed at out through the windows of a train; a train that took us on a tour that we, or at least I, didn't deserve.

"Oh, _Peeta_!" I tuck my hands underneath my chin, looking guiltily down. "Peeta, I think I've

gotten sick!"

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After he'd helped me calm down, Peeta suggested something that almost made me cry in fear and yell in anger at the same time. _Stupid hormones_.

"Why don't we visit the Maternity Center?"

We've never gone before, much to Peeta's vexation.

Not even for an ultrasound have we stepped through those fancy glass doors. Though I'm scared for myself and the baby, something, fear? perhaps fear from the dark past, and fear of what may be wrong keeps me from that certain white building.

I want to fight, I want to fight to the last word, but a tug of guilt, no, the baby just kicked in fitful sleep; he probably senses his mother's indecision. _Go_ , I can almost hear a voice say, _you need to go, for me_.

"Ok." My voice is low, annoyed. Now my baby, er, the voice that my subconscious has given my baby, and my husband are both against me.

Peeta looks at me in surprise. His blond eyebrows are almost a full two inches above his eyes. I would laugh if I wasn't so nervous about what I've just agreed to.

"Uh, ok," disbelief taints his words. He's expecting a fight. A verbal, if not a small physical struggle. "Ok." He repeats, waiting. Waiting for me to object to my agreement.

I stay quiet.

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Stark white. It's a terrible color. Too flawless. Too honest. Too clean. I didn't even have a white wedding dress when Peeta and I were married. My first wedding dress, the capital-made one, was white, but it was just too much.

When Peeta and I were married, all I wore was a worn, deep midnight-blue summer dress. Nothing fancy, just a variation of my daily wardrobe.

Stark white. Why do medical facilities always have white as their base color? White uniforms. White floors. White ceilings. White walls. White lights. White doors. Even the patients have to wear white 'dresses.' White, white, white.

I'm wearing one of the white hospital 'dresses,' and am sitting on an examination table. At least they've added shorts, also white, to the patient ensemble; otherwise my backside would be chilled on the cold (white) examination table.

Peeta has left for a moment to use the commode, leaving me alone for when the nurse or doctor arrives. Traitor. He (and our baby) convince me to come here, and he leaves me. At least the baby is still here. I rub my protuberant middle, calming the life inside of me; he senses his mother's nervousness. I smile to myself, I'm making my child out to be a psychic. He _senses_ this and he _senses_ that.

I note my surroundings. My nervousness awakens strongly when I observe the 'tools' of a doctor's trade on the various counters.

The white door suddenly opens. To my chagrin it isn't my husband striding through the doorway.

I've seen this man months before. His smile is just as white, just as perfect. I grin internally when I realize I don't remember his name. He's the man, who, with his…brother? practically ambushed Peeta and I on the way home one evening last autumn.

"Hi." His smile sickens me. I want to throw up just so I'll be forced to look at the bottom of a trash bin instead of his brilliant grin. "How are we doing today?"

I want to raise my voice and state the obvious, _Not very good, clearly. Why else would I be in a hospital, idiot_? Instead I give the expected, "Fine," and let him turn his back to me to sort out some instruments on the pristine counter.

 _Peeta, get in here, now_.

I'm about to slip off the counter and make a dash for the door when the doctor turns around, and I'm a prisoner. _Great_.

"Well, you can imagine how shocked we all were when we found out your surprise."

I'm confused for a moment, and then I realize that when I was walking down the main roads with Peeta to get here, that would have been the first time most everyone saw me with my swollen belly. We'd never told anyone simply because I'd not wanted to. I'm surprised Peeta didn't spill long before now.

"Yeah, we just, uh, never got around to it."

An amused smile flits across the doctor's face as if I'd just said something funny without my knowing. It annoys me like crazy. Peeta had better get his butt in here soon so we can get this thing over with.

My wish is granted, because moments after I have the frustrated thought my husband cheerily saunters into the room, grinning up to his ears.

Of course, Peeta's going through some fatherly pride. He's probably been chatting to some of the nurses about his pregnant wife waiting in the back. I can just hear him failing at trying to contain his pride gushing out from his lips.

Said husband stops next to the table and takes my hand, an excited twinkle in his eyes. _Sheesh_ , you'd think the baby was already here.

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"I want a female doctor." Here I am, first doctors' visit in forever, and I'm giving commands. I'm shocked at my boldness, and then I realize it's probably driven by fear.

When I issued my command the doctor stopped in his tracks, his second examination glove still pinched between his fingers. He's already gotten one on his left hand, and I think it's the snapping of the glove against his skin, the abrasive sound, that prompted me to speak up.

"I'd like a female doctor," I repeat, adding a little politeness to my tone. "please."

Peeta isn't confused or irritated at all. Of course, why not have a female doctor? It's only right.

The doctor starts to explain, to object, "Well, are you sure? I am perfectly capable of-"

Peeta, oh, and I'm proud of him, interrupts, "If my wife would like a female doctor, couldn't that be easily arranged?"

His amiable, persuasive pitch does its work. The doctor embarrassedly snaps his one glove off, tosses it in a trash bin, and strides out of the room. I don't get his disappointment. Either he's a creeper, or he's disappointed he won't get to care for a celebrity, _agh_ , but that's what I am unfortunately.

Peeta smiles at me, gently, softly, and I give him an impatient frown in return. He shakes his head at me, boy, I must be a piece of work.

When the female doctor, Doctor Meredith, arrives, I'm shocked at how comfortable I feel around her. I'm not even too scared when she asks me to lie down on the examination table. Peeta and I both answer the questions she asks us, and only the intimate questions are difficult to get out.

When it's all over, when I'm in my own clothes, and the tests have run through and are completed, Dr. Meredith explains the results and answers our questions.

"Well, Katniss, there is a baby in here for sure." She pats my swollen belly. Her smooth voice is so calming. "There's no emergency. You've simply been experiencing some of the odd symptoms of pregnancy."

I swallow and nod. "What about the metallic flavor I tasted?"

"Another symptom." She says as she nods. "It's not as common as the tenderness of your breasts or upset stomach, but it's still normal. Same as your apparent 'cold.' It's just another sign that God is creating a life inside of you."

Peeta's arm tightens around my waist. Another ' _we're actually going to be parents, there is going to be an actual baby that's_ ours _here soon_ ' kind of feeling rushes over both of us.

When we're almost out the door, almost all fear cast aside, Dr. Meredith places a hand on my arm. "Remember, Katniss, if you ever need to talk; I don't care if its women talk that you don't feel you can spill on your husband, or, or even if you need to ramble and rant, I'd be happy to talk when I'm available."

Gratitude rushes over me. "Thanks, Dr. Meredith."

"Oh, call me Valentina, or Val if you like."

"Val," I nod. "Thank you."

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Once we get home Peeta and I both topple onto the couch exhausted.

We both barely fit onto the couch what with my girth, but we make do. Peeta, back against the couch back snakes a hand underneath my neck and lets the following arm hang off the edge of the couch, his other arm and hand rest on my hip and thigh.

It's a little warm, but it's wonderful to be held. I'm safe, protected. Everything's right.

Peeta mumbles out a few boy baby names. "In the case you're right." Other than those few names and my triumphant comments in reply, there's no talking between us.

The sunlight, shining in through the windows behind us, and onto the wall above the empty TV stand drift to the west, and we drift into sleep along with it.

Just before I fully give way to sleep, I hear Peeta's voice in my ear. "I love both of you."

I barely mumble out, "I love both of you too," before I'm overcome by tiredness. And we stay there until morning. I, Peeta, and our child; safe, happy, hopeful, okay.

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A big thanks to all ya'lls who are still keeping on with the story. I write whenever I can, believe me. I also suffer from a common condition which I'll call 'Fanfiction Reader Impulsion Disorder,' or FRID, which

I actually looked it (FRID) up to make sure it didn't mean anything vulgar, and learned it is a Jewish, or Slavik variation on Yiddish meaning, "peace." So, reading fanfiction gives me a peace of sorts, simultaneously causing me great anguish. It's self-inflicted pain really, it's our (the readers') fault. So get off of your butts you guys, go do something worthwhile; like getting a bag of chips, a tissue box, and a nice warm cup of black tea, so you can come back here and be slightly comfortable in your pain.

One thing before we part for a bit: I'm currently writing a Star Trek: 2009 fiction here on . I'm translating it into French and German as well. Problem is, my translations aren't the best. (I'd heavily depended on an online translator to aide me in my strivings, but from the comment of a reader, it didn't sound very natural.)

So if you are someone, or know someone, _here_ on who knows French or German, and is relatively fluent in English, and who would be willing to Beta my story, please, tell them to message me! I'd only be able to use PM here on with them, as I share an email address with someone and I wouldn't want the inbox filling up with all of _my_ stuff.

If I found the perfect Beta, I'd then be able to translate the rest of my written stories, and stories to come!

That's it!

May the odds be ever in your favor, and the stories ever in your heart!


	12. Chapter 12-A Promise of Transformation

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 12 is/are "Transformations" by _Sleeping at Last_

Chap. 12-A Promise of Transformation

When I was younger (which seems like a century ago, probably was), they said for every new life brought into the world, an old one is taken out. Sounds right. Even death needs some sort of balance.

I suppose when the baby breathes his or her first breath, someone somewhere will breathe his or her last. If 'they' are right anyways.

I've never taken to believing old sayings. Just because a string of expertly pieced together letters makes sense at first, doesn't mean it's right. For example: inspirational maxims. Those sentences, often said long past by dead heroes and poets, that lift the soul to a mindset where it wants to do great things.

One for example, I thought it was rather tacky when I first heard it, "Reach for the moon, even if you miss you'll land among the stars." Probably some romantic took months to polish this phrase, and then nonchalantly dropped it into a public conversation on television as if he or she had made it up on the spot.

I've never had a hunger for science, there was never the opportunity, but I do have a small knowledge of it. Let's say someone was crazy enough again to try to land on the moon. If their rocket or whatever cuts halfway let's say, there will be no stars around except the Sun. There isn't any room for stars in the millions of miles between Earth and the moon, especially considering our Sun is a dwarf sun, yet it could still swallow all the planets in our solar system with chasms upon chasms to spare.

I shake my head again at the blindness of those lost in history, and then, without stopping the movement of my head, shake my head at those living today in the present. They're…we're-just as stupid with our sickeningly hopeful songs, poems, and speeches.

To look good is our goal, inspiration isn't the top priority. I'm reminded of something Effie Trinket has said over and over; "When coal is pressed hard enough, it turns to pearls."

Inaccurate, but sounds pretty sound if said to a brainwashed, Capitol-raised population.

Oh, the things we humans say to do anything. I take a burning swig from the bottle of room-temperature liquid, it tingles in a comforting way down my throat. I haven't been full sloshed for days, but this bottle hasn't left my hand, and isn't going to either.

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When I see her full frame for the first time in 5 weeks, I'm floored. Sure, I've seen her upper half every now and then, through a ground floor window of my house, yelling at me to come outside and ' _Enjoy life outside._ ' But now, seeing her at what, 8 months pregnant, when the last time I saw her she was her regular unhealthily skinny self, it floors me.

"Hey, sweetheart."

She cringes at my old name for her.

She looks healthy enough; Peeta is taking good care of her. She is round…a shape not usually associated with this petite girl, and…and…happy-looking. Content.

"How-" Katniss breaks off. Is she thinking about asking me, ' _How can you live like this?_ '? No, _I_ know, but _she doesn't know_ that she cares about me that much.

"How am I doing? How long have I been sitting here? How long has it been since I've eaten? How long has it been since I've bathed? Pick one…I just woke up."

Katniss rolls her eyes just bit. "How did twenty or so liquor bottles end up smashed in Peeta's flower garden?"

Her eyes tell me that this isn't the main reason for her barging in; we both know it. I attempt to weasel my way out of a full bombardment of "Why?"s and "You worthless excuse for a human"s.

"Ah, I haven't been stoned…well, not fully at least, for days."

The girl before me puts her hands at her hips. "Well then how do you explain the shards of green glass that completely crushed Peeta's gladiolas?"

"You don't care about his flowers." I chuckle and scratch at my chin, at the bristles sprouting from deep within my skin. When was the last time I shaved? Hmmm, doesn't matter.

"Maybe not," she's too stubborn for her own good, "But I do care about all the work he's put into them."

"Ah, work that took time, time he could've spent with you. Selfish."

She furrows her dark eyebrows angrily. "When he's happy, I'm happy. You don't know how much time he's spent trying to clean the village up."

"I'm not blind. I see the flowers, the trimmed grass. Looks nice."

She puts a hand around to her lower back, supporting it. Neither of us has mentioned the great swelling protruding from her middle, what's the use talking about it?

We stay there in silence a bit. I look stupidly around the kitchen. I'm seated at the small table sitting in the middle of said room. It's filthy, so filthy that I'm a little ashamed…but not enough to try to clean it up. The garbage kind of grows on you after a while…literally if you're conked out long enough.

The neck of the bottle is still surrounded by my fingers, like I'm strangling it.

Katniss sighs. "What are you going to do, Haymitch?" I stare confusedly at her for a while.

"Do?"

"Yeah, I mean, you can't live like this forever."

"I have for over twenty years and I'm still breathing."

"Oh yeah? Barely." Of course, she singles out my raspy breathing. "You've got to treat yourself better than this. If you died in here we wouldn't know it because it already smells like a morgue in here."

I smile dazedly at the thought of them having to sift, peel, and shovel through the mounds and heaps of garbage just to find my rotting body.

"Ah, that might be the stray cats that find their way in through open windows. They can never seem to find their way out so they just starve to death."

If Katniss hadn't been pregnant, she probably would've brushed this off with a disgusted look, but she _is_ pregnant, and is looking a little green.

What she says next floors me for the second time today. "If you don't clean this place up…if you don't clean _your life_ up…well, just don't expect us to bring our child over. Ever."

I chuckle, though I am a little touched. She'd actually considered the thought of raising her's and Peeta's kid up to know me.

"Well, well, here is Katniss Everdeen…ah, Mellark, sorry, standing in my kitchen giving me life advice. Y'sure you fit to be a phsyciatrist?"

"Haymitch, we want to help you. We keep _trying_ to help you get back on track. The _only_ person stopping you from being a suitable human being is yourself!"

I ponder the dramatic words that have just dribbled from the now emotional mess that is Katniss Everdeen…Mellark, Katniss Everdeen _Mellark_.

"Ok."

"Ok, what?" She sniffles.

I smile evilly. "I'll clean up…but only if you _don't_ teach the kid to call me Uncle Haymitch or any of that."

"What is he supposed to call you then?"

"Does he have to call me anything? 'Grumpy neighbor next door' won't work?"

" _Haymitch_ , he has to call you something."

"I don't know, I don't _know_. And since when is the kid a boy? Did you find out?"

Katniss shakes her head with a small triumphant smile. "I know."

I roll my eyes. Motherly instinct my butt.

A voice calls from outside. Peeta.

"Well, your adoring husband is looking for you. You'd better leave before he starts to think we're having an affair."

" _Ugh, really_?" She gags and makes a face.

"Get out of here," I laugh. And then I cough.

Her disgusted expression melts into one of concern. "You okay?"

I nod, clearing the gunk from my throat. A dull pain starts up in my side. "I'm fine, now get out of here before I call the strays on you."

She steps slowly backwards, and then turns, glancing over her shoulder just once as she goes through the kitchen door to the outside world.

I try to de-familiarize myself with the smells of my home. Sure, they're nasty, but it's going to take some time…a lot of time…to get 'un-used' to it.

I look down at my soiled shirt and pants. My hair is clumped in greasy clusters. My body is sweaty and warm. A shower sounds nice.

As I strip out of my clothes on the way to the stairs (if Katniss has forgotten something and runs back in right now, it's her fault for what she sees), tossing the soiled garments over the railing, I think about the new life within Katniss' belly. Maybe it is here to replace me. I still at the thought, but shake my head.

"Old wives tales," I mumble. My socks are in my hands, but instead of tossing them down the stairs, I put them in an overflowing dirty clothes hamper. I've got to start somewhere.

I start the shower, standing under the hot stream. " _Uncle Haymitch_ , ha!"

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I really hope you've enjoyed Chapter 12! A quintillion apologies for being so late!

Still looking for a Beta that fits a certain description (You can find the requirements at the end of Chapter 11: Metallic?)!

God bless you! Salut! Guten Tag!

-UD


	13. Chapter 13-You Tried to Kill Me

**Disclaimer** : I do not own the characters or their original story (THG). Only this story plot is mine.

Theme Song for "When the Flame Goes Out" is "There are Worse Games to Play/Deep in the Meadow" from the Mockingjay Pt. 2 soundtrack.

Theme Song(s) for Chapter 13: "Mt. Grimoor" by Brian Reitzell and Alex Heffes, and "End Suite" by Brian Retizell (both songs are from the "Red Riding Hood (2011)" soundtrack)

 **Chap. 13-You Tried to Kill Me**

I had another 'waking nightmare' yesterday. What's worse is that fact that it started because Peeta touched me. No, not to hurt me; he was trying to feel the baby kick.

I've had the moment on replay in my head since it happened; a loop of pain that I'm torturing myself with. _You're weak. You're not fit to be a mother_.

I thought yesterday would be different. Usually I clam up and start crying as soon as the baby moves in his sleep. Often I'm alone when it happens, and I repeat my mantra over and over and over again until I forget for a while the exact memory that was unearthed at my child's movement.

Yesterday the baby was restless, but I'd only cried out once, only repeated my mantra three times, and hadn't ever shaken like I was having a seizure like I usually do. I was actually smiling when Peeta came home. I laughed when he had me sit down so he could feel the antics of our baby.

His hand pressed gently against my belly. I had moved his big hand a little to the left where our child's feet were stretching my skin. I remember it so vividly. Peeta's rough skin catching on the thin, navy blue cotton of my shirt. The sweat from his outdoor labor gluing his bangs to his forehead. The baby, trying to get comfortable by stretching out his body as best he could.

And then, it happened.

I don't know how. Maybe it is because of the violence I've seen, caused, and been subject to that has warped by brain, or maybe it's just me, but at the first kick of our baby's foot against Peeta's hand, my body turned to defense mode.

My subconscious told me the baby was kicking Peeta away, that I should get away from Peeta. That's when my mind, my strangulated mind, took over.

In my mind Peeta suddenly grabbed my arm, twisting it. I cried out, Peeta clenched my throat with his hands in a tight, inescapable lock. At the tightening of his fingers around my neck, the oxygen in my blood slowly, slowly wasn't replaced. Peeta, or, the mental nightmare that pretended to be my husband, gritted his teeth in a terrible grimace, perverse satisfaction in his dark eyes.

I began to claw in desperation at his fingers. Peeta laughed. He _laughed_. As clearly as if it were real. As if it were actually happening. And that's when I fully believed that what was happening was real, wasn't a nightmare.

And then, suddenly out of nowhere, _hands_ , tens of _hands_ , belonging to unseen bodies, snatched at my legs, my hair, my clothes, anything they could grip. They pulled my hair out in clumps. They scratched and tore at my skin with their knife-like fingernails. My clothes were rent in rags. My belly exposed, the hands scraped at it. I screamed in pain and horror at them, but they didn't hesitate to break skin. The light in the room went dark red.

Peeta's vice-like grip didn't loosen, the edges of my vision went bright white, and then red, and then black. I felt an immense, incontrollable fear…I wasn't as scared for myself as I thought I'd be…..but, the _baby_. If I don't have oxygen, _he_ doesn't have oxygen. If I die, he….

With a raucous cry, and with a strength I don't possess in real life, I pried my husband's fingers from my neck. He scraped skin as his hands were thrust away by mine, but I didn't care, I could _breathe_ , the baby…..he could _breathe_. He wouldn't die.

The hands raking at my body fell away. The light in the room grew brighter. I heard Peeta's, the _real_ Peeta's voice from above me. The nightmare Peeta stared daggers at me, breathing deeply, but unable to hurt me while being in my incredible, unreal grip.

And then he faded away, just like that.

I woke up on the floor, screaming. I flung my husband's caring hands away, apparently I'd grabbed them in my nightmare, just as I had done to the imitation Peeta.

It took Peeta five hours to get me to speak, and then another hour for me to speak anything that wasn't incoherent mumbling.

I wouldn't let him touch me, though he tried to lay a gentle hand on my shoulder once or twice. Eventually I left the room we were in, but not before answering Peeta's last plea for an explanation.

"You tried to kill me." I said simply, and walk out.

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I don't cry. I'm working on that. The whole, cry-at-every-little-thing aspect of my personality. That little facet of myself is heightened by the hormonal surge brought on by the baby, but a lot of it is just me.

When the sun goes down I try to go to sleep, but the bed, sans Peeta, is cold, huge; it feels like it is swallowing me. I grimly smile at the thought as I slip off of the cold mattress and onto the cold wood floor.

What a mouthful; thin sheets, fat, cotton pillows, and me, all going down a dark, endless throat….forever. My smile slips away. Why did I find that funny?

I shouldn't think of my death so lightly as that. I am supporting two lives now, not just one. One precious, one worthless. But I, the worthless, must live so that the precious life within me lives. I have no choice in the matter; no selfless, right choice at least.

 _It isn't just you now, who dies if you die_ , I tell myself. It was never _just_ me who would be hurt if I died, even if I'd like to think different.

I sit Indian style with my back to the side of the bed. I look to my left at the bedroom door. It is closed. I slammed it shut when I hid myself in here a few hours ago. I locked it not too long after.

Blue, pale moonlight shivers in slender rays across the dark wood of the door. I want it to open. But at the same time I wish it would stay locked until the end of the world, and even then…..

I'm wearing my own sweater. It is a fuzzy, ugly, blue affair, and it isn't very warm, but it is the softest garment I own. And, it is a gift from an old friend. Effie won't ever know that I wear this 'eye-catching, gorgeous top' as my pajama shirt.

My pants, well, they're not mine. Peeta's white and red striped pajama pants are thin cotton, but very comfy. I have resorted to wearing them because my own shorts rebelled and shrunk on me. I smile and look down at my protruding belly, stroke it gently.

"You'd better be worth it." I'm being sarcastic, but I take back the words as soon as I finish saying them. I don't even want to pretend I don't want this baby. For all my bad fortune, I'd probably jinx the pregnancy. I close my eyes tightly.

I can't let another kid die because of me.

Perhaps I'm being irrational. It is late.

I hear the ticking of our wall clock, but I'm too lazy to get up and check the time. Probably couldn't get up to check even if I had the motivation. Because of the extra 15 or so pounds I've gained, and the weight of the baby, I'll need someone to help me up if I want to stand without straining my back, or peeing all over the place.

I look at the door again. It is clear that Peeta isn't going to join me tonight. I half don't want him to. I sigh and say aloud to myself, "What am I going to do with you?" _You're broken, shattered, and everyone close to you gets pierced by the pieces_. I sigh, and quick the simultaneously self-pitying and hateful barrage before it can become unstoppable.

Peeta. I need Peeta.

But, like a pain that is never going to go away, I push the hollow ache aside and lower myself onto my side. The floor is cold. A draft skips across the floor and tumbles over me. I shiver at the fingers of cold piercing my top, and at the waves of cool air leeching in through the thin material of my, er, Peeta's pants.

I won't be able to tug the sheets out from the bed without standing; Peeta does it up so well. I frown, and resolve that once it is light, and I get out of here, I'll go fetch that gray, heavenly-soft throw blanket that lies on our couch, and toss it over our bed.

That way, if this ever happens again, I'll at least be warm. But I don't have the oh-so-soft blanket with me now, so I curl up as best I can, what with the small barrel at my midsection, and try to doze.

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I wake up to a metallic 'jumbling.' I open my eyes. The doorknob is twitching this way and that. Someone is fumbling with it on the other side.

I painfully lift myself up on one elbow. It is morning. How late I don't know.

I hear a key being placed in the lock. I quickly lower myself onto the floor. I can't talk to Peeta right now…..not now.

I slow my breathing and relax my eyelids to look like I'm still slumbering. Hopefully my husband doesn't think I've fallen off of the bed.

The door opens almost silently. Soft footsteps. Unfamiliar footsteps. I snap my eyes open and see, at an odd angle as I am lying down, small feet, shapely legs. Definitely not my husband, or a man, for that matter.

I angle my head differently to look at the intruder. She looks back down at me with a jumbled expression; I see sympathy, disappointment, and love, all in one gaze.

"Val?" I question, although I know it is her. Val, or, Valentina Meredith, mine and the baby's doctor. I've only ever seen her in her work setting, and then only three times. Now she's out of her doctor's attire, in something more comfortable and friendly, and I hardly recognize her.

"Good morning, Katniss." Val gets the formalities out of the way. Then, she jumps to it. "Why're you on the floor?"

"Why are you in my house?"

"Your husband asked me to come over. Says something happened yesterday."

I curl up on my side once again and close my eyes.

"What happened, Katniss?"

I sigh. My throat hurts. My eyes water. Oh no, she's going to make me cry. I sigh again and take a deep breath.

The air pressure shifts around me, and I know that Val is now crouched next to me. She places a cool hand on my forehead. "Do you need to come into the clinic?"

I don't answer. "Katniss?"

She is concerned, legitimately, but I still find it annoying. _Just let me sleep. Let me die, but save my son_.

 _It isn't just you. It was never just you. It isn't just you. It was never just you_. Is this a new mantra, a new refrain for me? To repeat over and over again so I don't kill myself? So I don't hurt my baby indirectly?

I shake my head. Val sighs. "What's up then?"

I swallow, and say in a strong voice that startles me, "If I told you, if I told anyone else, you all would think I need 'special help.' You'd probably say Peeta needs it too."

A rogue tears skitters down my cheek. I feel it sag for a moment, and then it leaves me to collide with the floor. I'm not speaking perfectly clear sense, but my message reaches Val.

Her eyebrows turn up in worry. "Oh, hon." She holds out her arms, and I raise myself up to complete the embrace. I sob into her shoulder. She falls back on her backside, but doesn't let me go. She rocks us back and forth and rubs my back.

"Oh, hon." She repeats. "We're going to get you help." I don't respond, just sob into her shoulder, soaking the material. I can't stop her from getting Peeta and I aid. I shouldn't. My life and my child's life may well depend on it.

I see a shadow on the hallway floor just outside the door. Peeta. He doesn't dare come into my line of view, but he doesn't realize that he has already let me know he's there. As I sob harder, the shadow shortens. _He's coming in here_ , I think hopefully. _He's coming to me. I'm sorry, Peeta. You can come in here_.

But he reconsiders. Thoughtful as ever, he reconsiders. The shadow lengthens, and then disappears. I hear him slowly make his way down the creaky steps. He's never been able to go quietly down those things. Not with his already heavy step, made louder by the loss of one leg, and the addition of a prosthetic. He still has to hold onto the railing, at times, to retain purchase so he doesn't stumble and go tumbling down the stairway.

He's different now, and not just visibly. And like me, broken from the inside out. He has only one leg, and innumerable aches, I have my scars, and several random pains as well. We're different than before, obviously. Like all of us, not just those who were in the Games, but those too who were in the war, who were affected by the war. The Games break people. War breaks people. Peeta and I have gone through both, one of them we were drug through twice, the other seemed like we had been.

I hold onto Val tighter. I wish it were Peeta holding me right now. Surely he knows I've forgiven him. No, forgiven myself for yesterday's outburst? For yesterday's nightmare?

My tears slow, they stop. My eyelids droop, they close. I sleep. It isn't a fearless sleep. It isn't an encumbered sleep. Nor is it terrible. But it is sleep where, you know your problems aren't over, but as you drift off, know that when you wake up, you'll see hope just a little ways off, however dubious it may look.

I sleep. I dream. No nightmares. Just perfect dreams. Dreams that may indeed come to happen. Dreams where there is no fear. Where Peeta and I, along with our child, live perfectly imperfect, but happy lives. I smile, whether in real life, or only in my half-awake dreams I don't know. It is possible. Possible to heal. I don't see it all yet, but _somehow_ , we're going to patch up our lives.

There might not even be any scars when we're done.

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Salut, mes amies!

I _could_ reheat the old excuses I've laid out before. But, whoever even _likes_ leftovers? They seem to _never_ sound good. So, here's my offering, take it or leave it: The device I use to upload my stories disconnected from the internet. I don't know the stinking password, and those who do know it have been gone all summer. Now they're back, and I hope to be back in business. Although I hope to have it move along at a slightly faster pace than before.

I sincerely hope you've enjoyed reading this installment as much as I've enjoyed composing it.

When should the next segment be expected? Within the next few weeks.

(Me: *Shoulder shrug* "Come on, give me a break. School just started."

Some of you guys and gals: "They had a break! They just had a whole, summer-long break!"

Me: " _Shhhhhhh_!" )

Please, deign to review!

~May the odds be ever in your favor, and the stories forever in your heart!~

~UnclaimedDemigod


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